


T.F.W.C. (The F*cking Wreck Club)

by seapigeon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Activism, American Politics, Anal Sex, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Breathplay, Current Events, Depression, Everyone Has Issues, Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marijuana, Mindfuck, Oral Sex, Past Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation, Shower Sex, Spanking, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:19:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 108,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seapigeon/pseuds/seapigeon
Summary: The mission to fix Bucky takes a turn when the team realizes he isn't the only one in need of fixing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Letting you all know from the start that this story does interweave current events and politics into the Marvel universe. No names or parties are mentioned for the sake of not making any of us crazier than we already are. That doesn't mean our dear characters don't make their opinions known.
> 
> This is my first venture into the world of Stucky. Please enjoy.

It was just a frisson, the barest disruption of the air, but it was enough to set the hair on his neck on end.That feeling - a sixth sense he had always had, even before the serum, because in the most basic of of terms he was _prey_ back then, in so many ways _-_ that feeling was rarely a prelude to anything good.Steve braced himself and then—

“You believe this shit?”

Bucky.The voice washed over him and something inside him clenched.Steve threw a mental blockade up against the torrent of emotions that wanted to slam him, not to mention the thousands of questions he had.There would be time, he hoped.So Steve schooled himself into something like composure and said a phrase that had been on repeat in his brain for nearly a year now.

“They don’t remember.”

Bucky moved, restless, footfalls undetectable in spite of his heavy boots.Steve recognized the nervous energy of a man with so many thoughts in his mind that he struggled to pick out the most relevant.That was a side of Bucky he had never known until the war - until a time when Bucky didn’t know all the answers, or was confronted with a situation he couldn’t bullshit his way through.

“How?How can they…”

He had struggled with the same thing.It was a tremendous tangled knot of factors that made people so foolish nowadays, much of it instigated by Hydra and the development of technology that moved faster than man’s ability to grasp its consequences.Had he not been one of those pieces of technology, a hunk of sickly flesh full of naive ideas submitting to a potentially deadly experiment to _save the American way?_

_How are you any different, Steve, how are you better?You’re not, you self righteous fucking idiot._

Steve pulled away from those thoughts, knowing it was dangerous to pursue them.Sam had taught him how to compartmentalize, how to replace those negative and ultimately unhelpful thoughts with something better until he actually believed.Someday, when the dust settled, Sam would go back to school and get some more letters after his name.

Lots of people said Steve should do the same.He smiled that waxen smile that fooled most everyone and said he didn’t know what he would study.The truth was he had only ever been good at one thing: fighting.

“It’s a mad world,” he said, knowing full well the inadequacy of the statement.“How did you…?”

“Cryo chamber malfunctioned, so they had to pull me out,” Bucky said, into his refrigerator.His jittering feet had at last carried him somewhere with a purpose, and in a moment he’d located the milk and bread and cheese.Steve knew it wouldn’t escape his notice that it was the same brand of bread they bought when they were younger.“I always come out of that thing so _hungry._ ”

He knew why.He’d felt it after they pulled him from the ice.According to people smarter than him, one burned through so many calories shivering during the warm up that one’s blood sugar dropped precipitously.They had given him hot coffee on the plane, coffee that was so sweet it nearly made his eyes cross and was laced with rohypnol, he later learned, but it helped.

“Does T’Challa know you’re gone?” Steve asked, his tone careful.

“If he doesn’t, he’ll figure it out soon enough,” Bucky replied around a mouthful of cheese sandwich.

Which meant his phone would be ringing any minute now.

“Your security sucks,” Bucky added.It was disguised as an afterthought, but Steve knew it was at the very forefront of his mind.“Don’t need to be the Winter Soldier to break in here and slit Captain America’s throat.”

“Jesus, I wish someone would try.”It was out of his mouth before he could control it, and it was the truth.

Bucky said nothing.He just made himself another sandwich and drained the milk straight from the carton.

 

 

 

They were right.Steve was a fucking wreck.

He was in another room right now rummaging for something.That gave him a second to be less than controlled, and Bucky let himself clench his teeth and squeeze the edge of the granite countertop until he was sure his metal fingers left dents on the underside.Didn’t these assholes know that he was well, well beyond Steve in the fucking wreck department?

He’d kept it together in front of them.He had to.They couldn’t see just how confused he was, about what he felt and what he was supposed to feel, about who and what he was now.They couldn’t see the perverse longing he felt for someone to _tell him what to do_ , to remove the need for him to think and make choices and pretend to be human.

And that was not even touching the memories, which had come hard and fast after that moment on the helicarrier, when Steve had somehow been able to form words through his ruined face.Christ, the rage he’d felt, the _rage,_ at this target for daring to be any different, for not fighting back or resisting, for accepting it and calling him _that name…_

His name.

And when Steve fell he remembered, saw it in reverse, Steve’s arm outstretched and the look of pure horror in his blue eyes…

He let go of his own accord, even though his shoulder and hip and several other things hurt like fucking hell and everything in his mind screamed to _get away_.His body accepted his strange will to drop out of the open maw of the dying ship.As he plummeted he remembered the last time, the freefall in air much colder than this, and the landing so hard he thought his spine tore right out of his body.

He hoped, even then, that Steve’s landing would not be as hard as his. He hoped that without fully understanding who Steve was, to him or anyone else. 

Then the water rushed up and he twisted to take the impact on the metal arm, but it still knocked the wind out of him and radiated to the very roots of his teeth.And there was the target, in murky water made darker by ribbons of blood, but the mission was very different now.

So he dragged him to shore, vicious stabs of pain everywhere, and there was so much fucking blood because he’d shot him and stabbed him and split his skin and bone with both flesh and metal and - 

“Bucky?”

He started, and there was a gun in his hand like it was just another finger.Pointed at Steve’s face, low, brainstem level.He knew the splatter pattern intimately, the fantastic pink and red corona, a twisted halo that had given him a grim satisfaction once upon a time.That vaporization of blood and tissue, the mist you could taste.

There was no fear in Steve’s face.Slowly, slowly, Bucky unwound himself and tried to lower the gun.It was hard not to pull the trigger when the instinct was cued.

Steve waited him out.He remembered something else, then, watching Steve over the barrel of the gun.Steve, sitting on a hillock of mud and early spring grass and white crocus, cleaning brain matter off his shield.His face was speckled with blood, a macabre set of freckles.He did freckle in the summer in a way that Bucky had always thought complemented his features; in that moment, though, the morning after one of their hardest fought victories against Hydra, he was pale, lips set in a flat, tight line.Captain America, pale and dirty and tasting the blood of two dozen men on his lips.

Steve knew, too, that human mist.The taste of death.The feeling of a skull imploding under a blow, vibrating up his arm.The control it took not to kill, or kill instantly if he had to.

Bucky laid the gun on the counter.Steve approached slowly, not wary enough, a gazelle that had escaped too many lions.Next to the gun, he placed a small, thin package.

Bucky struggled to understand the next emotions.Anger was the easiest, but it was not like his usual anger.This felt more personal, somehow, more invasive.

“Really, Rogers?I almost blow your fucking brains out and you give me a toothbrush?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you already get a room at the Hilton?” he retorted, voice sharp and without patience.A long moment passed, but at the end of it Bucky was able to reach out and pick up the toothbrush.He didn’t try to stop his mind from methodically cataloguing all the ways he could use it as a weapon.

“Don’t startle me,” Bucky said through his teeth.Why was that so hard for people to understand?Did you spook a fucking rattlesnake and think it would end well?

“It wasn’t my intention, and I won’t make the same mistake twice.” 

Except he did.He always did.Bucky knew that, knew it like his own (non-metal) hand.

They were doomed.

 

 

 

The call came twenty minutes after the standoff, when Bucky was in the shower.He heaved a sigh, looked toward the ceiling, and then answered.

“Yeah?”

It was Natasha on the other end.“Barnes.Is he with you?”

_I’m great, thanks.How are you?_ A small, mean part of him wanted to screw with her, but she didn’t deserve that.

“Yes, he’s here.He said his cryotube malfunctioned.”

“Did he happen to mention that he wasn’t authorized to leave Wakanda?”

“Of course not, but I figured that was probably the case.”He leaned against the counter, where Bucky had left an empty milk carton and a gun. 

“He needs to go back.It will take a few days to complete the repairs, but T’Challa wants him to go back when they’re done.”

Something ugly twisted in his gut at her words.He knew she was just relaying another person’s wishes, and that being direct was her nature, but it riled him.

“He doesn’t need to do anything.”

“Steve—”

“He went in there voluntarily, but if he’s ready to be out, no one is going to force him back.Is that clear?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Steve, he went in there because he’s dangerous.I know it, he knows it, everyone knows it.Except you.”

“We’re all dangerous, Natasha.”

_That’s why we have the Sokovia Accords, because we’re all so dangerous that we can’t be trusted to protect people unless we’re on a government-held leash, but whose hand is holding that leash, really, and remember, the second you tug back you’re in a prison underwater in a straitjacket or trapped in an elevator with a dozen people trying to murder you no matter what you have done for them, what you’ve sacrificed—_

Oh, dear.He needed to talk to Sam.

“That’s true,” she admitted at last, her voice softened.“We are dangerous, you and I, but we are at least…stable.”

_Speak for yourself, darling._

“Barnes has never had the opportunity to…come down.To process.”She sighed on the other end of the phone.“He can shut himself off.Make himself appear normal.But it’s an act, and he will crack.He’s not ready for the world.” 

“So putting him back in a cryotube is the answer?We were supposed to find a cure for him but I’ve seen no movement on that.When exactly is he supposed to _process_ things if we keep him frozen?And while we’re talking about it, what the hell kind of plan is the cryofreeze, anyway, Natasha?What right do we have to shut him back up in that goddamn _tomb,_ pretending like we’re _—”_

He stopped, because the rush of the water in the pipes stopped.Steve lowered his voice and finished his thought.

“Right now we are no different than Zola or Pierce or anyone else who imprisoned him.I can’t do it anymore, and I won’t bring him back.If T’Challa has a problem with that he can come see me personally.Tell him to bring his claws.”

He ended the call.He felt guilty for raising his voice to Natasha, but nothing else.Enough was enough.

 

 

 

Natasha exchanged a glance with T’Challa over the table.The corner of his lip was turned up in a smile that was both wry and sad.It had gone about as they expected, but neither was used to the strained quality in Steve’s voice, no doubt forced from lips no longer practiced at anything more than a frown.

It had been almost a year since she saw Steve.Last time he had been distracted, the tiniest bit reticent, but still easy with a smile.He’d been in a relationship with Sharon.It didn’t take a genius to know that Steve had a lot of baggage from Peggy, and probably felt guilty somewhere deep in his subconscious, but he had the will to try.

Two months later, it was over and no one was talking.Sharon just shook her head, and Steve ignored his phone and Natasha and Sam’s many attempts to draw him out.And then…

The election.

What a goddamned shit show.With every speech, every caucus, every stilted news channel broadcast, Steve wilted.How he could hold any faith that American democracy was real after everything they’d been through with Hydra and SHIELD, she had no idea.

Maybe it was because this one was so ugly.Openly so, inviting every sort of cockroach and vermin out of the cracks they usually hid in to parade around in the sunlight.When you were usually up against aliens or enhanced people or megalomaniacal AI cyborgs accidentally unleashed by Tony Stark, one tended to forget how cruel regular people could be.

Even so, Natasha knew she couldn’t begin to understand how it made Steve feel.He rarely spoke of the war and the exhibit at the Smithsonian was watered down.All heroism, no reality.Natasha had killed a lot of people, but never in the context of open warfare.The Howling Commandos won fights against odds that boggled the mind, and everyone was happy to conveniently ignore that it could only have happened that way because Steve Rogers was a killing machine.

Noble, unfailingly-polite-until-recently Steve Rogers and his shield.Together, they were probably some of the deadliest weapons in history.He wielded fist and shield against Hydra and the Third Reich, the worst of the worst, and that was why he could sleep at night.

But now, history was repeating itself right before his eyes, and it was in his own country instead of someone else’s.The same foul ideals were becoming pervasive and accepted - _enthusiastically -_ in the guise of safety.In a belief that the only way to stay safe and prosperous was to victimize others before they could do it to you, or to give away even more individual liberty in the hope of protection by agencies without a clear agenda.

Not everyone was falling for it, and for that Natasha was very thankful.But xenophobia, racism, and fear-mongering were what they were.The only difference here was the PR packaging. 

Yes, this was a dark moment in history.It was no stretch to understand why Steve would take it so personally.He had allowed this country to experiment on him, bloodied his hands for them, died in the frigid Arctic to save them, consented to fight again for a world and a country he no longer fully understood, been lied to.He survived assassination attempts, was forced into exile, compromised again and again and again because he was a good person and a goddamn sucker.

He pulled punches, but no one pulled theirs when it came time to hit Steve Rogers below the belt.Natasha was tired of it, tired of his silence, the circles under his eyes, the slow death of an indomitable spirit.He had shouldered the burden of embodying this confused, fearful nation he’d awakened to with an iron will, but this was a path he could not follow America down, and it killed him. 

“What are you thinking?” T’Challa asked.

“Nothing good,” she murmured.

“It will work.”

“How can you be so sure?”They were both so fragile, so wronged.

“People have a way of filling in one another’s gaps.”

And he was right, of course, but Natasha couldn’t help but think that between Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes, there were an awful lot of gaps.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky was eating again, unapologetic for the destruction he wrought upon Steve’s refrigerator and pantry.Steve had not felt hungry since last night, since the decidedly one-sided conversation with Natasha.He knew where he stood on Bucky going back to Wakanda.He was less sure where he stood on Bucky’s fitness for life on the outside.

He was calm this morning, without the intensity of last night.Nonetheless, Steve had seen his face before he snatched that gun out of nowhere.It was twisted in pain.

“You’ve lost weight,” Bucky said suddenly. 

“Different exercise routine,” he lied with unfamiliar ease. 

Bucky laughed, a dark chuckle that said he knew bullshit when he heard it.He was finished eating.He sat there at the table, shirtless, chin resting in his metal hand.Steve could feel his eyes from across the room.

Was it supposed to be this awkward with your best friend?

He turned and fished a yogurt out of the fridge because he knew he should eat.The Greek yogurt was the one thing Bucky had left untouched, because he wasn’t used to the sourness.His stomach churned under Bucky’s scrutiny.His gaze had not wavered, and if he didn't say something or leave in the next minute, Steve was going to lose it.

“I guess if you had a dame, she’d be feeding you, and you wouldn’t be starting to grow a pair of cheekbones like Red Skull’s,” Bucky said at last.“It didn’t work out with that blonde?Sharon?”

He wished he had never picked up the yogurt, much less shoveled it down his throat. 

“No.”He also wished that he didn’t sound like his jaw was wired shut when he answered.

“Why?” 

Bucky’s voice was guileless.Eyes as focused as he had ever seen them, since finding him again.Trying to be human.If he could do it, Steve could try to do it, too.

“I…”

… _am so afraid, all the time, because no one I care for ever makes it out unscathed, and Sharon, she couldn’t understand that.She couldn’t understand that I am a grenade with a loose pin, that I will never trust good times to hold…_

Steve tried to corral his thoughts.They ran off like that and if he let them go…

“It’s okay,” Bucky said.“You don’t have to answer, and I think I’m an asshole for asking.All this cognitive reprogramming does mix things up.”He was joking about it, but there was a tightness around his eyes.“I just wanted to make sure she didn’t cheat on you or something.”

“No,” he said, as relieved as Bucky about that.“No, Sharon is a good woman.A great one.” _I just couldn’t keep up my end of the bargain._ Even the most patient woman in the world could only take so many instances of a man pulling away, doubting what he had.In her mind, it was the same as doubting _her,_ which wasn’t easy for Sharon.If she had any fault in the breakup, it was that she had allowed herself to feel that she had to compare herself to Peggy, and when Steve pulled away from her she assumed that was why.

It wasn’t, but there were many times since waking up that he hurt all over from the simple thought of what might have been with Peggy.It crept up on him now, looking in Bucky’s eyes.Bucky had been happy for him.And why not, since he’d spent _years_ watching Steve get rejected by every girl he could throw his way.Somehow he’d landed a bombshell in every sense of the word.

Bucky seemed to know what he was thinking about.

“I have always,” he started, every muscle in his body tensing visibly, the knife he had used to butter his toast warping in a metal fist, “…wanted…someone…to see the things in you…that I…have…and _appreciate_ you.”The last words were fierce, almost a snarl.

Steve was taken aback.Not at the sentiment, Bucky had said things like that to him a thousand times when they were kids, but at the delivery.As he watched, Bucky willed his hand to release the butter knife, and he stood with jerky movements, a broken marionette, and retreated.

When Steve’s shock wore off and he thought to check on his friend, Bucky was asleep.He was balled tight into one corner of the bed, metal hand still clenched.By Steve’s math he had slept ten hours the night before and was awake less than one hour when he initiated their painful conversation.It was only later, when Steve went out for some desperately needed fresh air and a run, that he understood why Bucky slept now.

That was how much effort it took for Bucky to be human.To dig himself out of the rubble of his mind and be James Barnes.He could act normal around T’Challa, Sam, Natasha, because he wasn’t anyone to them.It required no effort beyond basic routines.But Steve…

For Steve, he had to be _Bucky_ , and he was woefully out of practice.Not to mention that in order to be that person, he had to accept what had been done to that person.How that person had been used, lost, found.

_No.Lost, found, used.Just like me._

The difference was, Bucky was trying.Steve was not.He had not tried to be anything other than miserable since things ended with Sharon, and if he was honest with himself, long before that.Probably since that day when he and Natasha had almost been blown to shit with Zola’s laugh echoing all around them.

That was, perhaps, when he realized the depth of deception, and his own gullibility.It hurt down to his bones to think he’d played into this willingly, without any real idea of what he was doing.Not for the first time, he wished he was still in the ice.

But he wasn’t, and no matter how long he sat out here in the brisk October wind, it still wasn't nearly cold enough to freeze a super soldier.Steve stood up and retied his sneakers.He’d covered more distance than he realized while lost in thought, and his toes were achingly cold by the time he got home.Nope, not enough to kill, but enough to be uncomfortable, like so many things in his life.

He checked on Bucky - still asleep, though his posture had loosened - and ordered an early dinner.Then he stripped down and stepped into a scalding bath, wincing as his toes burned back to life.

If Bucky could try, he could try.It was as simple as that.

 

 

 

The sun was gone when he woke.He had fallen asleep near the window, and when he touched his knuckles to it, the glass was frigid.Bucky sighed.At least Wakanda was warm.Not here.Not Bumblefuck, Montana, or wherever Steve was laying low.He had already forgotten.A bit alarming, no, that he didn’t even know where he was?Those were the things that fell through the swiss cheese holes in his brain.He knew where every exit was, every possible weapon in the apartment, the nearest getaway vehicle, how to inflict maximum or minimum damage or just slip away with no one noticing at all.But did he know where he was?No.

He was relieved that Sharon had not hurt Steve.When Natasha mentioned the breakup, his skin prickled.It would be difficult for him not to hurt Sharon if she hurt Steve.

God, he was simple.

Bucky took a breath and tried to remember that the world wasn’t black and white.Gray, gray, so many shades of gray.And red.

That buzzed in the back of his mind like a persistent fly as he tried to find something to eat.Gray and red, like his arm.Gray and red, like an SS uniform.Gray and red, like a man’s face while he died, throat opening into a hungry new mouth.

He always cut with his left hand, because there were no fingernails for blood to cake beneath.

Bucky sat down on the kitchen floor.Maybe he had pushed himself too fast earlier.He still remembered what happened after he went to that display in the museum and read about himself, saw the pictures - what a handsome man he’d been, once, eyes not dead marbles in bruised sockets —

_James Buchanan Barnes.James Buchanan Barnes.James Buchanan Barnes._

Sometimes the rhythm of it, when he repeated it enough times to lose its meaning, was calming.He took the dishtowel hanging on the handle of the stove and put it in his mouth in case he screamed.He had to do that a lot in Bucharest.

It was hard being alone with reality.Less so back then, since he wasn’t sure if it _was_ reality, in the absence of someone to anchor him there.Now his anchor was ten feet away with his feet hanging over the arm of the couch.Why would the idiot buy a couch that wasn’t long enough to fit him? 

He knew the answer.Sometimes, Steve forgot he wasn’t an anemic waif who barely made it through each winter.If one did the math, subtracting the years in the ice, he had still been that Steve longer than this one. 

He wondered how his own math would play out.He had been frozen between missions, sometimes only for days, sometimes years.Had he been Bucky Barnes longer than the Winter Soldier?Probably; the longest mission he recalled had been six weeks, and though he would never know every detail, he didn’t think it all added up to twenty-seven years.

What he did know was that it would take a lot more than twenty-seven years to atone for whatever time the Winter Soldier had spent on Earth.He knew that not every person he killed was a good one; some of them deserved it.Most of them did not. 

Steve stirred on the couch, toes spreading and flexing.Then he was still again.

Bucky couldn’t sleep any more, but he wasn’t going to wake Steve.He had a feeling that he had not slept well in a long time.So he sat against the stove, watching Steve’s feet and the play of shadows through the window.After a half hour he could remove the towel from his mouth.He no longer felt the urge to scream.

He was able to get up and eat one of those weird sour yogurts that were stacked in threes across half of a shelf.The one mixed with honey wasn’t so bad.Then he picked a book off the shelf.He stared at it in his hand, brow furrowed.For some reason, he was absolutely, positively sure that when Steve liked a book, he read it to tatters.Which meant he hated this one.

_A Game of Thrones._

Shrugging, Bucky took it back to the bedroom.It was an all night affair, but he read it cover to cover and understood right away why Steve hated it.He would have liked Ned best, because he was good, honest, and tried to do what was right.For that, he was beheaded and his family thrown into peril.It was awful and sadly realistic, and Steve did not need that kind of realism from his literature right now.

For his part, he thought he would read the rest of the books, if only to find out what happened.He liked Arya best.And Bran.Someone had to like poor, broken Bran.

 

 

 

Steve woke with an incredible crick in his neck.He slept well, without dreams, but apparently this spine-sundering pain was the price of such tranquility.He was standing at the counter, palms down on the cool granite, trying to stretch it out when Bucky emerged.

_Fresh as a fucking daisy._

Bucky always said it back then, when they woke after whatever grossly inadequate amount of sleep they could snatch in the field.The shield was a good pillow, and more often than not they would share it if room allowed.Sometimes they woke nose to nose.Rarely, they stayed that way, breathing the same air as long as they could, because it was warm and easy in a time when things were not.

“If you’re not in your own bed tonight, I’m going to put you there,” Bucky said.He had the toothbrush Steve had given him hanging out of his mouth like a cigarette and his jacket, shirt, and boots in hand.It was, Steve realized, everything he owned.He deposited it all next to the couch with a clink of hidden ammo. 

“We can share the bed.”It was not as if they hadn’t slept damn near spooned together for almost eighteen months straight in the war, and dozens of times before that in Brooklyn, when winter clawed relentlessly at poorly insulated walls and windows with rotted panes.“That couch is too short.”

To his surprise, Bucky gave an abrupt shake of his head.He looked up through his hair.His eyes were skittish.“If I have a nightmare…”

Steve had punched more than one hole in a wall in the ether between sleeping and waking.Once, he had done it with Sharon there next to him, and she screamed so loud that two neighbors called the police, thinking he was beating the hell out of her.At least people called the police for that nowadays.What a night that had been, both of them trying to convince everyone that he wasn’t a batterer.

“Enough said,” he assured Bucky, who was looking at him again, the same way he had the morning before.Gathering strength to be human.

He sat down on the couch and plucked _another_ gun from nowhere, and began to disassemble it and clean the parts with his shirt.Order.Routine.Distraction. 

“The old arm,” he said, “it weighed a fucking ton.I would get these horrible pains in my neck, start to lose feeling on the other side.At first they tried to make me train through it, strengthen up around it, but I blew a disc and Lord knows a quadriplegic was no good to them.”He was chewing the end of the toothbrush, and suddenly Steve knew that he had to buy the poor man some cigarettes.“They reinforced my spine and it did the trick.Even with that, I had pains and muscle spasms til the day Stark ripped that thing off.”He spoke of it with nonchalance; the fight with Tony didn’t upset him the way it did Steve.It was a simple equation in his brain.He’d killed Tony’s parents, so Tony wanted to kill him. 

_No big deal, no hard feelings.That’s the algebra of murder._

“The new arm is better, though,” Steve said, cutting his thoughts off before they could grow into something unmanageable.

He nodded.“A lot lighter, anyway.But now I have to swing harder.”There was a _snick_ as he reassembled the gun and surveyed it.“Funny how that works, huh.”

Steve nodded and then winced.Bucky looked up through his hair again, and then stood up.He moved fast and Steve couldn’t help the knee-jerk reaction; he brought his arm up to block a blow that never came.All Bucky did was dig two exacting metal fingers into the side of his neck until a pain so intense that his vision burst into white stars rocked him.

His legs deserted him for the briefest second and his entire left arm was dancing with cold little needles and Steve wondered if Natasha was right, if Bucky was too unhinged for the world, but then his vision cleared, and…

Bucky eased him back onto his heels.Steve felt like he was going to throw up, but that was all he felt.His neck didn't hurt anymore.

“Sleep in your own bed tonight,” Bucky repeated, and let him go.

 

 

 

He went to the store, still feeling weak-kneed and a little sick.They needed food.And cigarettes.Jesus, did they ever need cigarettes.

Steve bought six kinds because there were so many new ones that neither he nor Bucky had ever tried.People today were really spoiled for choice.A ludicrous thought when it came to cigarettes, since they’d long since been proven to kill people.

He wasn’t worried.His body’s ability to heal and regenerate was boundless.It was the only way he wasn’t deaf from years of explosions, bullets, swords, and bodies pinging off a shield right next to his ear.Hell, the impact with Thor’s hammer had ruptured both of his eardrums and shattered his sinuses, he’d felt the blood leaking down to his neck and tasted the spinal fluid.Twenty minutes later he could hear again and had a tremendous headache, but that was all. 

He’d also been shot in the gut with an exploding round not so long ago.It shredded his insides;he should have died slow, septic, suffering.Yet he walked away without losing feet of bowel, without a colostomy bag, without a dozen fistulas leaking acid and filth into his abdomen.Some others on that hospital unit were not so lucky.He remembered a 25 year old shot once in the gut, regular round, dead three weeks later from multi system organ failure.He was a new father; his son would never know him.But Steve Rogers, the ruination of the American intelligence apparatus, walked away whole and untroubled. 

Granted, his x-rays still lit up with shrapnel, and sometimes he could feel pieces of it beneath his skin, as if trying to work their way out…

But that was all.

If Bucky had been juiced up with a serum similar to his (and that seemed more and more likely), the two of them could smoke cartons and cartons of cigarettes, and their lungs would be as pink and pristine as a new baby’s if and when they ever actually managed to die. 

With that in mind, Steve smoked a Lucky Strike with shaking hands on a bench outside the supermarket.They tasted different than an old C-ration cigarette.He always gave his ration away, never having picked up the habit at home because of his asthma.But every now and then, on a very good night or a very bad one, he would light up with the others.Alcohol didn’t do anything for him; nicotine he could feel.

He was sure they’d designed him that way, to be more receptive to stimulants.He had read that the Nazis used methamphetamines to reduce the need for sleep and increase efficiency in their soldiers.Why should an American super soldier be any different? 

_Cigarettes and meth for everyone, you must tear the world to shreds faster and with more vigor!_

He dropped the cigarette and crushed it out with his shoe.It wasn’t the first one he’d smoked in this brave new world, and with Bucky around, he was certain it wouldn't be his last.

 

 

 

Steve was more like him than he knew.He’d seen that in how he expected an attack when a person made a sudden move.In all fairness, a warrior’s brain didn’t forget the swing of an enemy’s fist, even if that enemy was his brainwashed friend.Bucky smiled grimly.

_Do you spook a fucking rattlesnake an expect it to end well?_

Same trap, different victim.

Steve didn’t try to shoot him in the face, at least.Bucky couldn’t say if his reaction was better or worse.He looked gutted.Sickened.And for just a half a second, ashamed.

He pulled out his phone and dialed.His other hand wished for a cigarette, but he had a feeling Steve would come back with some.

Natasha answered in Russian.He responded in kind and told her that Steve was a fucking wreck.

“I was afraid of that,” she replied.

“I’m going to make him worse.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I already have.”

“Did he sleep?Eat?Talk?Go outside?”

Steve did all those things yesterday; was that an achievement?“Yes.”

“Then you’re helping.”

Bucky chewed his lips.A long pause stretched over the line, broken only by breathing. 

“I don’t even know which way is _up_ ,” he said at last, in English. _I almost shot him in the face last night.That is not therapeutic._

“Neither did I, when I left,” Natasha said softly.“But I found my way.”

 

 

 

 

“Bucky’s here.”

There was a beat of silence.Then Sam said, “He doing okay?”

“Yeah.I mean, as okay as he can be.”

“Are _you_ doing okay?”

“Well, I’m on my fourth cigarette,” Steve said, instead of what he was thinking.

“You smoke?”

“Quit for about 70 years, and can count on one hand the number of cigarettes I had before that, but yeah.Nicotine is one of the few things I can feel.”As an afterthought he added, “Sam, _everyone_ smoked, where I’m from.”

“I guess they did,” he allowed.“Why’d you fall off the wagon?”

It was easier to talk to Sam than he thought it would be; he had been aching for someone to confide in, but Sam, he was just such a good person, and he seemed to be under the impression that Steve was, too.It was hard to think of disappointing him.

“T’Challa wants him back in Wakanda.Back in cryofreeze.”

“And you don’t agree with that.”

“No.”

Sam thought for a moment.“Have you asked your friend what he wants?”

“No,” Steve admitted, “but he’s never been shy about that.And why would he have come here if he meant to go back under?”

“You think something’s off?”

Steve sighed and massaged his temples.It wasn’t that, exactly.There was nothing strange about visiting a friend.But why now?

_Why, when I am emotionally crippled and can’t do a thing to help him?_

“He was hoping for a cure.Why has he given up already?”

“Steve, I don’t know if I’d call it giving up.We have no idea exactly what was done to him, or if it can ever be reversed.Maybe he decided not to keep missing things.”

“He was so convinced.So adamant that he had to go back in there.”Steve sighed.“I tried to talk him out of it and he just wouldn’t hear it.Kept saying he was too dangerous.That he refused to be a tool of the state anymore.”He ran a nervous hand through his hair.What killed him was that somewhere along the line, that _state_ had changed from Nazi Germany to Soviet Russia to the good old USA.While it was still Hydra they were dealing with, they had infiltrated so far into the American government that it was foolish to say that one was not the same as the other. 

_If it looks like a duck…_

“What’s changed?” Steve wondered, crushing out the mostly-unsmoked cigarette - an American Spirit.

“I don’t know.”

“Nothing.Nothing has changed.” _Not if this fucking election is anything to go by._

“I’m telling you, man.You need to ask _him_.”

“Is that fair?” 

“More fair than making assumptions on his behalf,” Sam said with his usual wisdom.“Look, you can’t want to protect his freedom and factor him out of the equation at the same time.That’s not how freedom works.”

_Isn’t it, in this world?_

“You afraid of the answers you’re gonna get if you start asking questions, Rogers?”Sam pressed.

“You were there for the last two times I asked questions, weren’t you?” he responded, with more bite than he intended.

“Yes.The answers weren’t pretty, but you need to stop playing around.You’re never going to stop asking questions, because it’s in your nature.That’s the one thing they messed up when they made you.”

“What?”

“Don’t you ever wonder why they didn’t just drop you in the field, let you tear up the Germans from day one?”

“Because I was expensive.”

“No, Steve.It was because they knew you would make your own decisions.You wouldn’t blindly follow orders.I’m sure it’s not written anywhere, but they considered you a big fat failure.”

Steve chewed on his thumb nail. _Well, they were right_.

“You better not be thinking that they're right,” Sam said.

Busted.“It’s hard not to.” _Look at where we are, who we are…_

“Life’s tough, Steve.We know it better than most.I’ll tell you something, though.The minute you stop being you, the second you hold back the demand to know the truth, they win.Hydra wins.They have a man who will do anything, any time, regardless of reason and ethics…or a man so paralyzed by indecision and fear, that he’ll stand aside while other people do it in his stead. Is that who you’re going to be now?”

“No!”It tore out of him with visceral force.He was such a sucker, the call to duty speech _always_ got him, and Sam was good with words.

“Then stop letting people’s petty opinions drag you down, and be brave enough to let your friend speak.Now hang up the damn phone and go home.”

Of course he was right.He still wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve Sam.

“Sam, thank you.”

“Are you going home?I’m not listening unless you’re on your way home.”

For the first time in weeks, Steve cracked a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank God,” was the first thing out of Bucky’s mouth when he got home.There was a cigarette in his mouth before Steve managed to toe his sneakers off, and a second later he used the burner on the stove to light it.He flipped the ventilation fan on and took an impossibly long drag.He let it out slowly, and the pull of the fan swirled thick tendrils of smoke about a young, familiar, _cherished_ face with eyes that had aged a thousand years. 

Whatever wind had filled his sails departed. 

“What?” Bucky said.“I’ll go outside if you want.” 

“No.I don’t care.The fan is good, though.”He turned his back on Bucky and put the groceries away.Had it really been easier to face him when his eyes were dead?

Silence.The click of the burner - a second cigarette.More silence.Bucky was gearing up to talk.

“You ever smoke anything other than cigarettes?”

That surprised him enough to look up from the cabinets.“Like what?” 

Bucky shrugged, noncommittal.

“Have _you?”_

“Yeah.”

In spite of himself, Steve was curious.“And?”

“I don’t know if it hits the same way it does for other people.But…I guess they call it weed now?It helps.”

“It’s illegal.”

“Because we’ve never done _anything_ illegal,” Bucky muttered under his breath, and with an agitated movement, flicked ash on his kitchen floor.

His temper pressed at his control, because he could see the intent in that little pile of ash.“Are you asking me to get it for you?” Steve bit off.

“No,” Bucky replied, his irritation plain.“I’m telling you that you should try it, you idiot.”He picked up the pack of American Spirits.“And while you’re at it, stop looking at me like I’m one of those people we saw in the cattle car.I don’t need that shit.”He swept Steve’s jacket off the back of the couch and slipped it on, and then he was gone with a slam of the door that rattled the windowpanes.

 

 

 

Her phone rang for a second time.

“Steve?”

“I am the worst person in the world.”

“Doubtful,” Natasha said. 

“I don’t even know how to act around him, or what to say that isn’t _loaded_ …”

_I don’t know which way is up_.Oh, these poor boys.She stayed quiet, knowing that Steve wasn’t finished.

“He told me I looked at him like…Nat, we once found some people from the camps in a train we thought was Hydra’s, and he said I’m looking at him the way I looked at them, and I know he’s right, and he is so angry with me but how am I supposed to…Jesus, I don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“It’s okay to be upset about what happened to him, Steve.It’s not okay to treat him like porcelain because of it.If you do that, all he sees is his own suffering in the face of his best friend.Instead of moving forward he stays a victim.”

Steve was quiet for so long that she wondered if the call had dropped.

“Steve?”

“I do not know where I found such insightful friends,” he said, his voice rough.“Or what I’ve done to deserve it.I’m so sorry I yelled at you yesterday.”

“That?I wouldn’t even call that a whimper.Have you ever _really_ yelled at someone?”

“Tony.”

Well, who _hadn’t_ lost their temper with Tony Stark? 

It was true that Steve and Tony had a strange unstable chemistry.Like so many volatile relationships, when it was good, it was great, and when it wasn’t, it was _dreadful._ She suspected it was because Tony had a hard time being real and Steve had a hard time being fake, and they envied one another for it.

“How is he?”

“Call him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.I’m sure he knows what’s going on.”

“So what?He might surprise you.”

“I already have one basket case on my hands.Don’t you _dare_ tell him I said that, in fact, I shouldn’t have said it, it isn’t fair.”

“He’s made of metal and bone, _not porcelain,_ ” Natasha reminded him, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Steve groaned at himself, exasperated at having already forgotten the lesson.“Who ever thought it was a good idea to put me in charge of anything?Christ.”

“Goodbye, Steve.”

“Seriously, Natasha, how do I—”

But it was her turn to hang up, and she did it with a smirk.

 

 

 

He tried to focus on his breathing and the thud of his boots as he walked.It was a testament to how angry he was that his feet made any sound at all.One thing was for certain: Steve Rogers had not lost the talent for getting beneath his skin.

Bucky was willing to give him some leeway at first; he had pulled a gun on him, after all.It was all right to look at someone like they were a charity case when they acted accordingly.But all he did today was smoke a cigarette and suggest something a little stronger.Hardly cause for Holocaust eyes.

The air was crisp and fresh.It helped.Though he wasn’t overfond of the cold, it did tend to bring order to one’s thoughts.

Bucky had no use for empathy for many, many years, so it was hard for him to wrap his brain around his friend’s experience. It was clear that Steve was feeling sorry for himself and everyone else.That much was obvious.But that glimpse of _despair_ Bucky had seen in his eyes when he took the first drag of that cigarette, what the fuck was that?And why did it make him so angry?

After Bucharest, there wasn’t time for much emotion.The fight wasn’t over.Prevention of the release of the other super soldiers had consumed his time and thoughts.Because of that focus - that _mission_ \- he functioned.After that, the mission shifted to preventing anyone else from ever using him as the Winter Soldier again.And then he slept.

So there was no time for feelings, no room for words unspoken.That was how he wanted it.It was easier.It was also the path of a coward.

Steve had taken a lot of risks for him.Quite literally sacrificed his good name and reputation.Fought one friend to save another.Laid down his shield.Perhaps not entirely for Bucky, but it would be a lie to say he had not driven Steve’s choices.

He was worth all that, yet Steve couldn’t look at him.He wanted Bucky but his eyes didn’t see him when he stood within reach.They saw someone else, some broken stranger. 

Something began to click in his mind.He could understand that if the situation was reversed, it would be upsetting.If someone had done to Steve what was done to him…and returned something hollow, wearing his face…

Suddenly he couldn’t seem to pull in enough air.The world swam, and it was like hitting that cliffside in the Alps all over again.

 

 

 

 

“Hey.Hey!You okay, man?”

Someone was shaking him.A vicious reflex wanted to lash out - he knew by sound where the man’s face and throat would be - but he didn’t know what was happening, not yet, and this man might be the only one who could tell him. 

“Come on, buddy.Wake up.You have too much to drink?You’re gonna get frostbite if you sleep out here.”

It was coming back to him now.Steve with Holocaust eyes, Steve with dead eyes, the blood-spattered mountain.He let the man help him to a sitting position.It was strange to be so close to another human.Thank God he had remembered to turn on the hologram feature of the new arm.

“What’s your name?”The man’s body spoke of a sedentary job, and he had brown skin and kind eyes.

“James,” he said.His mouth was dry; how long had he been passed out in the street?Long enough for it to be dark out, and much colder than when he’d left.

“Is there somewhere I can take you?Someone I can call?”

Bucky pushed to his feet slowly, muscles tense.He had no idea why that simple exercise in trying to understand Steve’s behavior and body language had induced this level of anxiety.He schooled his voice into a calmness he did not feel. 

“No.I’m all right now.”

“You sure?”The man looked at him in a way that told Bucky that he wasn’t so far removed from lying in a gutter himself, and he wanted to help. 

Ah.This was a Good Person.The rare human who looked for and saw the best in others, who dared to be an optimist. 

_Like Steve._

It made sense all of a sudden, their concern for Steve.He wasn’t built for cynicism.A world in which he had to be suspicious of everyone, everything - that was a tremendous drain on him.He’d always been quick to trust and no matter how deadly he could be on a battlefield, he had the tender underbelly of an empath.Bucky knew how easy it was to exploit that.

His muscles loosened and Bucky felt the veil descend.The years of programming and training clicked on and his face softened into something perfectly vulnerable.

“It’s the PTSD.This truck backfired and I…”

“Shit, man.That’s terrible.I’m sorry.”His rescuer offered a calloused hand.“I’m Lenny.I don’t know if you’re on your way somewhere, but my wife made pork chops tonight and I swear they’re life changing.We’d be honored to have you, James.”

The act was supposed to be a shield, protection from the look of concerned respect on the other man’s face, but he realized too late that the emotions were real.Intrusively, painfully real.He didn’t think he could explain it if he tried, the way it hurt to try to be anything other than what Hydra made him.That was why he’d spent months in Romania high as a kite, because it stopped him from thinking, from feeling.It was a cruel sort of limbo, but one he could tolerate. 

“Thank you,” he choked out.There it was again, that inability to get enough air.“But I can’t.”

“Not even a cup of coffee, to warm up?”

“My friend is waiting for me and he’ll worry.Thank you.”He could no longer meet Lenny’s eyes.Something inside his head was wavering, and that was never good.

“No problem.The invitation stands, though I can’t promise it’ll be pork chops.”

Bucky nodded and turned away.He’d made it six steps before Lenny piped up.

“James!Your cigarettes.”

He took them and beat a hasty retreat.

“Thank you for your service!” Lenny called after him.

He put his head down and walked fast, heart thudding, ears rushing with blood.He tried to extract a cigarette twenty minutes later with hands shaking so badly that at first he didn’t realize he’d crushed the package.

American Spirit, indeed.

 

 

 

 

Steve was on the couch, asleep but not resting, not if the crease in his brow was any indication.It was irrationally frustrating to see him there when he _told_ him to sleep in his own bed - the last straw in a trying day.

He knew he shouldn’t startle him, that it was cruel and spiteful and he was a grown fucking man who ought to deal with his _whatever the fuck this was_ in a more constructive way.Not to mention Steve would swing or try to break his neck.Still, Bucky pounced, needing something he couldn’t define, needing it so desperately that it felt like it was pushing on the inside of his skull. 

Steve came awake in a rush of breath and muscle.He would have taken a lesser man’s head clean off with the brutal snap of his arm that followed, but Bucky was able to counter and pin him down. 

Once the wild panic left his eyes, Steve stilled beneath him.He was forcibly reminded of a rabbit spotted by a predator - a being poised on the edge of adrenaline. Only Steve’s chest moved, rising and falling sharply from the shock of such a rude awakening, and Bucky could feel the pound of his heart vibrating into his own chest.

“ _Look at me_ ,” Bucky said, feral.The seams of his skull _ached._

With a slight tremor of lips, Steve obeyed.He looked straight into Bucky’s eyes, blue to blue, in the sickly light of the muted television.

Bucky didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew when he found it.He also knew the thumping pain a second later when Steve broke free of his hold and gave him a much-deserved sock on the jaw.It landed him on his back next to the coffee table, the universe dancing behind his eyelids.

“Don’t you _ever_ do that to me again!”Steve’s hands were balled in the front of the jacket.He shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth.“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”He was so angry he was trembling. 

And the pressure was gone, the demon exorcised.A mad joy welled in his chest and spilled over and he was laughing like a lunatic.Steve looked like he wanted to punch him again, but instead he got up off the floor and stormed away.Bucky was reduced to hiccups when Steve returned with a blanket and pillow and threw them down next to him.Then he stalked away and the bedroom door slammed.

Bucky lay there smiling, aware he was insane and that what he had just done was completely unfair.But that was better.So, so much better. 

 

 

 

Bucky slept.Steve didn’t.

He stewed, rage clenching and unclenching in his stomach until he couldn’t take it anymore and he put on his sneakers and ran.

It took a marathon to cool the anger from being ambushed in his sleep.He hadn’t meant to doze off, but sometimes it was a coping mechanism that couldn’t be denied.He slept, or else he went crazy with anxiety and frustration and the endless cycle of what might have been if he had made different choices.

He had to remember that whatever he felt, it was likely a thousand times worse for Bucky.That was what stilled him then and settled him now.He knew the look of a man overwhelmed, on the verge of detonation.What was really left of his brain after so much cognitive and emotional tampering?What could he pull from for comfort, for coping?Precious little, Steve imagined.

He knew what Bucky had wanted, even if Bucky didn’t.It was exactly as Natasha said.There was a tremendous difference between empathy and pity; one acknowledged and the other obstructed.As someone who had once been very fragile, Steve understood the desire to be treated like anyone else…even if he wasn’t anyone else _,_ and very much at risk of damage.

That was where Bucky was now.He wanted a person who would look him in the eye and not just see his enslavers.That person would certainly punch him for being an asshole; Steve had not held back.What tricks the mind played. 

Finally, muscles warm and loose and sweat soaking through his hoodie, he was able to think.Steve slowed his pace and listened to the rhythmic strike of his feet.A tired sadness settled upon him. 

How could two people be so unhappy?And how could friends be so close and so estranged at the same time?This was like a toothache; just a twinge at first, but already growing to a monstrous pain.

It had not been like this in the brief time before they found themselves seeking asylum in Wakanda.Of course, they were rarely alone.Sam was there to buffer.When he wasn’t, they were both so focused on the mission that they fell back into the familiarity of wartime comrades who had no choice but to work seamlessly together.That was safe territory.

_You’re my friend_ , he said to Bucky, more than once.But what he should have said was you _were_ my friend _._ It wasn’t right to assume that things were the same, that Bucky was capable or desiring of friendship now.He had left him on the banks of the Potomac, hadn’t he?Left him there on the brink of death, lungs full of river, and never looked back.

If Zemo had not framed him, it was quite possible that he would have lived the rest of his days without ever seeing Bucky again.What would have happened, Steve wondered, if he had not gone to Bucharest?If he had listened to Natasha and not gotten involved?Would Bucky have let that SWAT team shoot him full of holes, or would he have retreated into his assassin’s shell and fought his way out, powered by the compulsion to survive?

Sam’s words from yesterday flashed through his mind.Sam had a way of being gentle with his insights, of laying a path without forcing a person down it until they were ready.Steve had seen it in his eyes many times.Now he knew what that look meant.

He was stubborn and selfish and he assumed that Bucky wanted this.In reality, his behavior leading up to the clusterfuck with Zemo told a different story.He wanted to disappear, and Steve wouldn’t let him. 

He was here now, though.He had come of his own will, and he seemed to care.But that didn’t mean there was no resentment.There was a great deal, probably, after decades of being controlled by other people, the most recent of which claimed to be a friend.

If he was honest, Steve was resentful, too.He was mad about being left at the river, furious that he could not seem to think rationally when it came to Bucky, horrified that his former best friend was the vehicle for his discovery that the world had become a labyrinth of ugly agendas…if it had ever been anything else.Above all, he was irritated that he was almost one hundred fucking years old and still so gullible.

If he ran much further, he would cross the state line.The sky was beginning to lighten and his stomach to growl.Self-flagellation was a calorie-burning business.

Steve sighed and cut a wide U-turn.It was time to go home.

 

 

 

He was borderline ravenous when he got back.He wasn’t expecting a breakfast in progress, nor Bucky standing at the stove in a borrowed t-shirt and gym shorts.

“Good run?” he said, innocuous.A white flag.

_You mean did I exhaust myself to the point of not being able to think anymore?_

“Yeah.”Steve was about to say something else, but then he realized that Bucky’s arm was no longer metal.He wiped sweat from his brow and gestured.“How?” 

“New feature.It’s a hologram.”He touched the pulse point at his wrist and it faded back to metal.“I guess T’Challa thought this was a bit conspicuous.”

“Just a bit,” Steve nodded.Once again, curiosity bit him.“May I?”

Bucky nodded and reactivated the hologram.He was patient as Steve examined his arm.He snuck a look at Bucky’s stubbled jaw as he did; there was a small bruise there, but it would be gone by lunchtime.He had a hard time feeling bad about it.Last night, Bucky earned it.

“This is incredible.”And it was; it looked so realistic, with pores and hair and creases.When he moved, the right muscles twitched and rippled.Steve knew the arm was metal, but with the hologram on, even he expected it to to feel warm and soft like skin. 

“It’s pretty good,” Bucky nodded, eyes drifting back to the food to make sure it wasn’t burning.

Steve couldn’t seem to stop looking at the hand, and after a moment he figured out why.A long time ago, back before the war, Bucky had bailed him out of a fight like he always did.On that particular day someone had managed to knock him down, and he broke his fall with his left hand - directly onto a piece of broken glass.People didn’t run to the hospital for a cut in those days; they had pulled the glass out themselves, hands slippery with blood, and Bucky’s mother sewed it up with black thread.If it had been him, it probably would have gotten infected and maybe he’d have lost a finger or two or the whole damn hand.Bucky healed up just fine, of course, though he had a hell of a scar and no feeling in that thumb for a month.

Bucky’s hand slipped out of his, patience spent.He went back to cooking, but said in an odd voice, “You thinking about that fight?”

God, he was transparent.“Yeah.”

“And here you are, still starting shit.”He said it cautiously, testing the waters.

_And here you are, still finishing it._

“We all have to be good at something,” Steve replied.Bucky declined his head, but said nothing.

Steve stripped off his shirt and pulled a clean one out of the laundry basket, casting the occasional glance at Bucky’s back.This time he was the one gathering courage to speak.Bucky was arranging two plates when he finally leapt over the precipice.

“I’m sorry if this wasn’t what you wanted.”

Bucky turned and looked through his hair, slow, guarded.

“I was just so happy to see you, convinced I could make things better, and you know how I am…once I make up my mind I can’t stop.”

“Stubborn as a mule,” Bucky agreed in a soft voice.

“I was wrong.If I’ve forced your hand, I’m sorry.”This next bit was the hardest thing to say, and he didn’t hide it.“Don’t stay…” his voice caught, “don’t do things on my account.If what you want is to leave all of this behind, I understand.”

_I’ll die a little bit, but I understand._

Bucky was frozen for a minute.He seemed not to know what to say or do, and it was a struggle.Steve had seen that expression before, when he was pinned beneath a girder on a ship that was going down.It seemed an odd reaction to an apology.Then again, when was the last time _anyone_ had apologized to him?And even an apology was loaded, because it meant he had to own the ways he’d been wronged.

“No,” he said at last, picking up the plates and walking them to the table.He set them down, movements measured.“We’re here now, and…what’s that saying?”He breathed, and then lifted his chin so he could meet Steve’s eyes.“The way out is through.” 

The relief Steve felt was as disproportionate as Bucky’s panic over receiving an apology.It flooded him, and for a moment he could only look back at Bucky with stupid glee.Bucky fidgeted under the attention and cleared his throat.

“You gonna get some forks, or are we eating with these dainty hands of ours?”

Steve recognized that the limit had been reached for the moment and happily accepted the prod back to less turbulent waters.He retrieved some forks and sat down to a breakfast well beyond his level of culinary ability, and then, full and sleepy, he collapsed into bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky felt strange and wrong-footed for several hours after breakfast.Never in a thousand years had he expected Steve to be the one apologizing to him.He’d acted like a total shit last night, entirely on purpose, and Steve fucking Rogers thought it was his fault like always.

What kind of martyr complex did the man have?Or worse, who had planted that in his brain?There were less obvious forms of torture and brainwashing in the world than what had been done to Bucky and he was now certain that Steve had endured some of them.

But something else gnawed at him, like so many little insects.Something left unexamined because he had not had the capacity to think about it until now.He paced, ever uncomfortable with the transition from man to weapon to man again.

Did he _want_ an apology?

What good was an apology?It didn’t change anything.It didn’t change that he had been captured in 1943, experimented on, lived when he should have died only to die in ways far beyond a lost pulse and breath leaving the body.It couldn’t alter his eventual collision with Steve decades later.Neither of them were prepared for that. 

He knew Steve looked for him those two years after Project Insight.At times he was only minutes or hours ahead of him and Sam.More than once he thought about staying put, letting them find him.But what then?Emotional pitfalls aside, it was difficult to believe that Steve was not just another person trying to use him.He had nothing but the word of a museum exhibit to tell him otherwise.Back then the memories came all at once or not at all; after the Smithsonian, things were like a lens out of focus.The picture was there but he couldn’t make sense of it.

He remembered…fifteen months in, the cobbled streets of Prague.He followed them.Watched Steve and Sam interact.Understood, suddenly, what he and Steve must have looked like, once upon a time.There was a bond there, an implicit trust.He’d thought, _why do you need me?_  

He wanted to leave but couldn't seem to; months later he understood that it was paradoxical jealousy, followed by spite, which made him send the two men cheap pints of Staropramen from just four tables away.It only took Steve a moment to understand.Then he was out of his seat, eyes seeking, face nakedly hopeful.Bucky had no intention of letting them catch him, and lost them quickly in the tourist-clogged side streets.

He ought to feel bad about that, perhaps.It was the closest they’d ever come to catching him - because he let them.After that he disappeared in earnest.

It wasn’t Steve who had thrust him back into the public eye.That was Zemo.True, Steve had shaped his decisions after that - _steamrolled_ his ability to object with those goddamn earnest eyes of his, though to be fair he was not at all sure if he wanted to object, or why.A part of him desired the opportunity to atone for all that he’d done, but another part thought it was a particularly cruel brand of masochism to shoulder that burden. 

Throughout it all, Steve had only done what any man would do, faced with the discovery of a best friend thought long dead.He just did it with a little more tenacity, was all.Rationally, Bucky understood all that.But in his gut…

He resented him.He resented the carelessness inherent in waking the small crippled shred of man that was still Bucky, the assumptions, the guilt, the pressure to be normal when no part of him was normal, not anymore.He hated having to look into the eyes of someone he loved and know that he was wishing and hoping for someone else.

But last night, Steve had looked at him differently.Seen him in the present and accepted it.Strange as it was, that cracking fist across the jaw was a cathartic validation.He touched the sore spot and relished the twinge of pain.

Yes, he was owed an apology and finally Steve recognized that.He was stubborn as hell, but he was a good apologizer.Never too proud; Bucky knew that was the smaller person inside him.

He sighed and sat down on the couch.He hated this.How would he ever be a functional human if it took him hours to puzzle out simple emotions?

_You were subjected to frequent electrical insults to the brain for the purpose of memory alteration and cognitive reprogramming,_ T’Challa said. _In essence, your brain has been exposed to seizure activity for decades.People with seizure disorders sometimes experience cognitive deficits.That is to say nothing of your original fall, which almost certainly resulted in some sort of head injury, and any bad hits you’ve taken since.And the constant cryofreezing._

In other words, he was brain injured.Permanently.

T’Challa had gone on to talk about how some in a post-ictal state became agitated and violent.He wondered if his handlers induced that state on purpose, to facilitate the ease of completing his missions.Bucky thought not; his work back then required calm, cold precision.

They did a number of scans on him when he first arrived in Wakanda, and before leaving to do what he could for Steve.The doctors in Wakanda were good at explaining the results.Because of them he knew the majority of the damage to his brain was in the frontal and left temporal lobes; enough to make him struggle with social and moral complexity, emotions, sometimes with memory, but not to impede his ability to do what Hydra wanted.From their faces he could tell that one day he _would_ have been too damaged, and that meant only one thing: a permanent retirement.Bucky had a niggling feeling that had Project Insight succeeded and Alexander Pierce lived to see the new world order, it would have been the end.Why waste time with a broken prototype when there were five newer, better soldiers waiting for their chance to gut the world?

It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though.They also said that some parts of his brain were more developed and connected than a regular person’s; exceptional, even.His sensorimotor, spatial, and pattern recognition skills were, in their words, off the charts.So he could shoot a quarter out of a child’s hand from a mile away, understand the trajectory of a bullet in the tenth of a second before it hit him and get his left arm up to block, find order and logic where others saw only chaos…but sometimes he didn’t know where he was, and heaven forbid he need to practice any kind of emotional regulation.

He resisted the urge to reach for his friend the dish towel when he thought of the last set of scans they’d done.T’Challa asked him to consent to being activated while in the scanner.He promised that as soon as it was done, Bucky would be injected with a heavy tranquilizer and rendered unconscious.So far, that seemed to be the only way to break the spell.

Bucky consented because he knew T’Challa wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t need the data.The activation was horrible - it always was, more so now because he was afraid to lose who he was again - but looking at the scans afterward was worse.He didn’t understand all of the science, but he watched the faces of the doctors and knew they were seeing something they had never witnessed before.

The further they got into the words, the darker everything became, except two small areas.One on each side of the brain, the right a little bigger than the left.They blazed bright against a blank silhouette.The amygdala, the brain’s center for fear, lit up like red poppies on his scan.

He knew enough to understand that the dark areas were the higher parts of his brain.The parts that held his rationality, his personality, everything he was.Exactly what Hydra sought to strip away.When it was done, when he was _ready to comply_ , those red poppies faded, and it was like his frontal lobes had been switched off.He was an empty vessel.An automaton.

God, he hated the people who had done this to him.And he hated himself for not dying along the way like so many before him.He didn’t often think about his time on Zola’s table in 1943, but he knew he was far from the first person to be there.Sam called it survivor’s guilt; that was part of it, maybe, but not the whole of it.

He suddenly became aware of something beyond the frenetic ticking of his own mind.Bucky lifted his head.A few seconds of listening told him that on the other side of the bedroom door, Steve was having a hell of a nightmare.

Three hours, seven minutes.That was what Steve’s brain afforded him for rest, even now.Bucky sighed.He knew the feeling.

 

 

 

He didn’t fight as a hand and a voice dragged him away from the terror of emaciated, barefoot children in rags in an early snow.Sharon used to wake him from his nightmares as early as she could, lest he become an uncontrolled tangle of limbs, any one of which could easily break her ribs.There had been no one to wake him for months and coherent words did not exist for the gratitude he felt that today, he wasn’t alone.

Steve turned into the offered arms.Inhaled.Different, but no less familiar than Sharon.It had been so long, though.So long that the smell of Bucky was a novelty.

The thud of Bucky’s heart was even, untaxed.Steve listened and tried to match first his breathing, and then his heartbeat.In ten minutes he felt as if he was back in the present, away from some of the things that haunted him.

“What was it?” Bucky asked.Steve wondered if he knew that his hand was moving repetitively, stroking a spot on his ribs. 

He swallowed.“The cattle car.”

Bucky’s breath caught for the barest second.Then he, too, swallowed down the memory of the train that turned out not to be Hydra’s.It was still Hitler’s, and on it they found the relics of Zion - hair, shoes, jewelry, a bag full of silver and gold fillings from people’s _teeth -_ and _people_.What was left of them.Liberated by the Howling Commandos, who knew full well that they had almost no chance of survival in the October winds, dressed in rags, skin vacuum-sucked to their ribs.Free, but ghosts nonetheless.They’d given those people all their rations, scant as they were, what weapons they could spare, and every bit of clothing and money and comfort they had.It wasn’t much, and they never knew if any of them survived.

Steve remembered that day and the weeks after, when the ache of cold and hunger and _fury_ forged him harder than any serum ever could.He had tried to kill with mercy before that.Not after. 

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Bucky said.

Steve didn’t need to see his face to know that the apology was genuine.“I would have dreamt about it anyway.The way people are behaving…”

“Like you said, they don’t remember.”

Steve was silent.He had not voiced his next thought to anyone, because it held terrifying implications, and until recently, he hadn’t thought himself capable of so much doubt.

“Bucky, I think they remember and they just don’t care.”

“No.”He said it with iron certainty.

Steve propped himself onto an elbow and looked down at his oldest friend.“Hydra has done such a job on them that they just want someone to hand them a little more money and the illusion of security and fuck all else.Forget people, forget the tired and the poor and the huddled masses.Forget everything this country really stands for.Everything we fought for.”

“Some of them, maybe.Not as many as you think.”Bucky’s eyebrows creased briefly.“I met someone yesterday.A nice person.He helped me even though I was a stranger, and not a friendly-looking one.Things are different, I get that, but people…at their core, most of them still want to help.”

“It’s a funny thing, Bucky,” Steve said, voice heavy, “some of them probably think they _are_ helping.I did.”Christ, it killed him, even now, a sundering ache in his chest.He forced the words out.“I was just a pawn.” 

And the pain welled, fast and fresh and shocking as a fishhook passed idly through a thumb by mistake.How did it still hurt so bad?

Bucky raised up on the opposite elbow, their posture mirrored, and looked into his eyes as they grew blurry with tears that were equal parts anger, grief, and humiliation. 

“We oughta…” Bucky started, and he had to stop, and Steve tried to control his emotions, because he could see that it was upsetting Bucky, but he’d held it for so long, so long…

Bucky’s lips thinned, but his face stayed strong.

“We oughta stop copying each other,” he finally said.They had both been used, taken advantage of, weaponized.By whom and for what purpose, willing or unwilling, it didn’t matter.They hurt just the same. And then Bucky smiled, the roguish, brilliant thing that always preceded the kind of trouble that young men got into, before the world crashed down upon them.

Steve imploded, because finally, it was safe to let go.

 

 

 

Steve slept hard after he hollowed himself out.Bucky suspected it was everything dating way back to that day in the Alps.Steve didn’t make friends easily in spite of the fact that he was nice to just about everyone.He tended not to let people in.People whose lives were marked by loss usually found it easier not to create opportunities for more of the same.While he was close with Sam and Natasha and Sharon, they didn’t know the man inside - not fully, because they had never known him before Captain America.The only one left in the world who had was curled next to him, drowsy, but still awake. 

Something strange was happening.Most of the time Bucky couldn’t turn his mind off unless he was completely exhausted or high.The first few days with Steve, fraught with tension and things unspoken, had worn him out and sleep came easily.At the moment he wasn’t even close to tired, and had nothing but cigarettes to smoke.But somehow, after puzzling his way through the post-apology emotions…after the apology itself…all was blank. 

Maybe he needed that to trust his own memories.Most of them were of the old Steve; two decades’ worth of shared existence, now just disjointed bits and pieces, but what remained was as vivid and powerful as if it had happened yesterday.Even in the war he had never quite gotten used to Steve the way he was now.Awakening to one thing when he remembered more of the other was jarring and difficult to reconcile.

Awful as it was, he needed to see vulnerability and self-doubt and apology to believe that this was still the person that resided in the few sunlit corners of his mind.That raw, seething empath and fireball that, once upon a time, somehow managed to keep him both in and out of trouble.It was still him.It was still Steve. 

It was…

_Peace._

He tucked his face into Steve’s shoulder blade and slept.

 

 

 

 

They woke nose to nose, like the old days.Bucky first, then Steve, who drew a deep, shuddering breath before he fully realized where he was, and with whom.As soon as the tension had come, it leached out of him.He was still tired; in fact he couldn’t remember ever being so worn out, as if the original Steve was crushed beneath the weight of what he was now.

He closed his eyes again.A few minutes later, he felt Bucky’s hand - the real one - graze against his jaw.

“Come on,” he said softly.“You need a shower.”It was a gentle way of saying he smelled.

“I ran to the state line and back,” Steve mumbled.

“How far is that?”

“About sixty miles each way, I think.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment.“Um…what state _is_ this, exactly?”

Steve opened his eyes.“Are you serious?”

Bucky’s glance flickered away for a moment.“I don’t remember things sometimes.Especially new or unfamiliar things.” 

Steve flashed back to those fraught moments in Lagos, when Rumlow had baited him with talk of Bucky. _He remembered you.He got all weepy about it…until they put his brain back in the blender._ God, if he could go back and put a hole through the man’s chest before he detonated that bomb…

“Steve?”

He blinked.“Sorry.”

“You looked like you wanted to kill someone for a second.”

_Ding ding ding, tell him what he’s won._ Steve took a breath.“How did you even get here if you don’t know where _here_ is?”

“You really want to know?

Steve nodded.Their noses brushed.

“When I look at maps, I remember the shapes.The lines, the number of turns, mileage.I plan a route using coordinates and go.A lot of names don’t stick, or I can’t dig them out of my brain even if I know them.It’s been like that for a while, now.”

Steve hated how casually Bucky spoke about the losses he incurred; it must have shown on his face, just like his murderous thoughts a moment earlier.He was no better at controlling his expressions now than he had ever been, apparently.His face had gotten him in trouble just as often as his mouth back when he was a smaller man.

“The doctors say names are just names,” Bucky said.“Just one way to identify things.I’m better with numbers, shapes, and pictures than words.They taught me a lot of strategies.”

“Like what?” Steve asked, genuinely interested.Bucky had seen an awful lot of doctors before going back to sleep and he never felt like it was his right to ask what they were looking for or what they found.If Bucky wanted him to know he would tell him.This was the first time he was talking.

“Well, numbers are easier to remember because it’s a different part of the brain that deals with them, so I use latitude and longitude for locations.42.3314° North, 83.0458° West is here.Same for pictures and shapes.This state is the one shaped like a mitten.I can tell you where we are, just not what it’s called.The word just doesn’t…”Bucky shook his head and gave him a reproachful look.“I’m here, and I know my way in and out.That’s the part that matters.Now, please enlighten me?”

“Why, if you’ll just forget it?”He didn’t ask to be flippant; he really wanted to know, and Bucky seemed to sense that.

“I’m supposed to try.There’s no chance of getting better if I don’t.” 

“Detroit,” Steve said.“We’re in Detroit, Michigan.”

He digested it, brow creased.“Couldn’t have picked somewhere warm?”

“Wouldn’t feel right, this time of year.”

“No,” Bucky agreed after a long moment, “probably not.”Then he turned over and sat up, breaking their bubble.Somewhere along the line he shed the t-shirt.Bucky had always run hot, or warmer than him, at any rate, so both of them in the bed with the heavy comforter was probably too much.Steve stared at his back, cataloguing the ropes of scar tissue where metal met skin and the slight lateral curvature of his spine.He imagined Bucky had grossly understated the discomfort caused by his old prosthesis; even with reinforcement of his spinal column, it had still pulled everything out of place. 

Steve was beginning to doze off again when he heard Bucky murmur, “Detroit, Michigan.”He cracked an eye open in time to see Bucky run both hands through his long dark hair, and then he pushed away from the bed, leaving Steve to succumb to the exhaustion he couldn’t shake.

 

 

 

Bucky woke him later.The clock on his nightstand told him it was almost 8 o’clock in the evening.He’d slept most of the day and still felt like leaving the mattress was a feat of strength he could not accomplish.

A bowl of soup was pressed into his hands and he didn't realize he was hungry until the smell hit him.It was matzoh ball soup, with bits of chicken and carrots and fresh herbs.He could have cried at the beautiful familiarity of it - a dose of New York, of what life had once been _._ To say he inhaled it was being kind.Bucky was ready with a second helping, and ate his own leaning against the headboard.

Nothing was said, and nothing was needed.


	5. Chapter 5

He dreamt of Bucky in the snow, shattered, suffering, left arm hanging on by a shred of skin and sinew.His humerus was exposed, jagged and cracked like the dried chicken bones he sometimes saw in the street.He tried to get to him but no matter what he did, the snows kept shifting, swallowing him, a deafening wall of white that numbed to the marrow.It wasn’t the first time he’d had this dream, but it was the first time he woke up wild and screaming from it.

He could feel Bucky’s weight on him, the press of his hands, hear the urgency in his voice, if not what he actually said.A second later Bucky wrenched the window open and the wind howled in, shocking him the rest of the way awake.His clothes were soaked in cold sweat and it only took a minute for shivers to wrack his body.Teeth chattering, Steve could finally make sense of what his eyes were showing him.There was Bucky, whole, alive, also sweating.

“That one didn’t want to let you go,” he said.His eyes were too bright, like they sometimes were back during the war - hypervigilant, expecting attack.Bucky leaned across him and pulled the window shut.

Steve was incapable of speech.Every neuron felt overtaxed and he was _freezing_.He didn’t fight when Bucky dragged him from the bed and toward the bathroom, and Christ, why didn’t his legs want to work?

It seemed like forever, but eventually, standing under the shower spray with Bucky literally holding him up, he felt warm again.

 

 

 

His mind was wavering.It was having trouble differentiating between this, now, and another time where Steve shook like a leaf.It was sometime in the late thirties and he had the flu.Chills wracked him.So pale.So sick.But he was strong now and he wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this_.

He leaned against the wall, arms tight about Steve’s chest, supporting his weight as steam surrounded them.

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this._

But it didn’t matter how strong a person was in body if they had no strength of spirit or of mind.Oh, how he knew that.He had been at this point once, worn out, nothing left in him to fight.He knew what came next and he would be _damned_ if he let Steve get there.

So he held him until he felt dizzy from the heat.Until the tremor went out of Steve.Then, slick with sweat and condensation, he dragged him back to the bed.Bundled him so the cold couldn’t touch its ugly fingers to him.He wished, not for the first time, that he could lay his hands on Steve and make him better, or at the very least give him some respite from the things that plagued him.

But that was not in his skill set.Slaying men and slaying demons weren't the same, most of the time.

When he was sure Steve was settled he went back into the bathroom.Turned the shower on, cold this time, and stood under it, hands braced against the wall.It cooled his body quickly, but it did nothing to calm the boiling rage beneath his skin and behind his eyes.

Someone had done this to Steve.Several someones.Twisted him and crumpled him and sucked away everything brilliant.And then left him like this, with no idea how to pick up the pieces.Bucky didn’t pretend for one second that he wasn’t one of those someones.It made him want to rip out his hair.

He got out and dried off.Smoked six cigarettes.Most tellingly, when he tried to do the one thing that almost always calmed him down, aside from shooting things, he couldn’t.He couldn’t focus on the recipe, and if his left arm wasn't metal he would have lost a few fingers trying to use the knife.This wasn’t going away.

Because, god damn it, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

 

 

“For _fuck’s_ sake, didn’t anyone take any _fucking_ care of him after you _fucking_ thawed him out?”

Natasha had to hold the phone away from her ear to avoid hearing loss.“He never asked for help.All he wanted was to work,” she said, phone still at arm’s length.

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what he asked for.Jesus, don’t you people know _anything?_ If I had a quarter for every time STEVE FUCKING ROGERS said he was okay when he wasn’t I’d have more money than that dickhead running for president!”

“James—”

“You had no right. _No right_.Tell that to that Nick Fury and his goddamn eye patch.God, I wish I had actually killed that son of a bitch!”

“ _James—”_

_“_ We are never coming back.Do you understand? _Never.”_

_Click._

She stared at the phone, which she half expected to be smoking after Barnes’s rant.Then she looked up at Clint, who had, of course, heard everything.He raised an eyebrow.

“Barnes curses way more than I thought he would,” Clint observed, “considering Cap’s ass puckers when you say anything remotely colorful.” 

“Colorful like _ass puckering?”_ she said, glad for his humor.

Clint shrugged and took a swig of his beer.He shook his head.“He’s not wrong, though.” 

“No, he’s not.”She took a long sip of her own beer.

Clint was quiet for a while, which wasn’t unusual, especially when Barnes was the subject of conversation.He liked to pretend he came out of retirement because of a lack of anything better to do, but she knew that his own experience with mind control was a strong factor in the decision.It bothered him more than he let on that no one faulted him or questioned his loyalties (or anyone else’s) when he came back to himself.With James, that was all anybody ever did; who had drawn the line in the sand, the one that said it was forgivable to do terrible things under the influence of a God or alien, but not _men?_

They finished the first beer in silence.Eventually Natasha looked up at Clint.His face was scrunched in thought. 

“Off the record,” he said, voice hesitant, “are they a thing?”

“What?”

“Rogers and Barnes.Do they fuck?” 

The question caught her by surprise.“God, Clint, I don’t know.”

He was chewing his lip, eyes very serious.“Nat, you have been trying to fix that man up with every woman in civilization.”

“He was with Sharon and I know for a fact they had plenty of sex,” she said, disbelieving.“He likes women.”

“People can like both, you know.”He leaned forward, mind turning things over rapid-fire.He nodded to himself.Then he frowned.“Wow.If it’s true…him and Tony, that’s taking on a whole new layer of meaning.”

She knew what he meant.Tony had never tried to hide the fact that he was liberal in his affections, especially when he was younger.The near-constant tension between Tony and Steve had been present from day one.It was mostly a personality and values clash, but whether they were cognizant of it or not, it was also possible that it was _sexual._

_“_ That is some _serious_ hate sex potential,” she murmured.“Let’s hope that never happens.”

Clint raised his eyebrows in agreement.No words were necessary to express how much of a nightmare that would be for team dynamics.They both knew there were people in the world with strong chemistry who should never, ever act on it, and Steve and Tony were just such people.Clint got up to get more beer, leaving her with a moment to herself.

Natasha sat with the conversation, turning it over in her mind.Clint was one of the most perceptive people in the world; they didn’t call him Hawkeye for nothing.His intuition was damn near infallible.In fact, the only person who ever duped him…was her.If Steve had been able to hide from him this long, it meant that he was practiced.One might be, if homosexuality was illegal in the time he was from.

Well.That explained a lot.Clint returned and offered her a beer and a wry smile. 

“If they do fuck, I hope Barnes fucks the sad right out of him,” Natasha said, and meant it.

“I hope they fuck the sad out of each other,” Clint amended.

She lifted her beer.“I’ll drink to that.”

 

 

 

He wanted to shoot things.People. _Anything_.

It took everything he had not to smoke the weed he’d bought.He was trying to save it for Steve, whenever he next surfaced from the pool of despair.He should have bought more.A lot more.

With a sigh, Bucky got up and opened Steve’s laptop.He didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish by yelling at Natasha but it brought him down enough to stay in control.They were all complicit in this.He knew she cared about Steve, maybe even loved him in her own way, but she was foolish enough to believe him when he said he was all right.Steve’s goddamn heart could be laying on the ground next to his body and he would still say he was fine, right before he died.

_I can do this all day._

His vision went white and his hands trembled over the keyboard.Thinking about Steve dying churned up a fresh well of emotions that he wasn’t ready for.Things he’d never processed, like the fact that _he_ had almost killed Steve a few years ago.He had to control this or he was going to pass out again…or worse.

Bucky bit his lips and thought about shooting people in the kneecaps.It was such a perfect little target, his absolute favorite for vile people; you could see the patella blow apart on impact, the tendon snapping, the quadriceps receding as the person crumbled, often _onto_ the knees that had just been shot out.He knew what agony looked like, and for those in the world who deserved to suffer, it was a good place to start.

Lest he forget how fucked he was in the head, the thought of exploding kneecaps slowed his pulse.Lifted the veil of ire so he could concentrate on the map he’d pulled up on the computer and plan his route.He wasn’t going to shoot any kneecaps, or any people at all, but he was going to shoot.

Steve ran.He shot things. _Everyone copes in their own way,_ T’Challa would say. Ironic, given that once upon a time his coping strategies had including trying to kill Bucky.That would be off-putting for most.Not for Bucky Barnes.He had grown to like T’Challa a great deal.

He scrawled a note to Steve and left it on the nightstand.He felt guilty leaving him, but if he didn’t get out for a little while, he would lose what little was left of his mind. 

 

 

 

Bucky found Steve’s beat-up old Harley easily enough.It sounded like shit but it ran, and for all the rust, it was peppy.The rush of cold wind and noise pushed thoughts of hunting down Nick Fury and stabbing him in the other eye aside for the moment.

He could hear the report of gunfire from outside.The warehouse - a behemoth of brick and sheet-metaled windows, probably built the year he was born - was meant to be soundproofed, but few things were from his ears.Bucky parked the bike and went in.

Two men ran the place.One looked to be in his 50s, with teeth and nails yellowed from nicotine and a friendly face.The other man couldn’t have been older than 25.He wore an impressive beard and a demeanor that said that _this was just a job._

He’d met people who didn’t like guns.Bucky understood, but guns were, simply, something he couldn’t live without.When he was unarmed he felt naked, and not in a good way.Steve had his shield, Bucky had his guns.He set to the task with grim determination, and hoped he didn’t look too frightening while he did it.

_It’s not supposed to be like this_.

Boom.

_But it is like this._

Boom.

_And you helped make it like this._

Boom.Boom.Boom.Boom.

_And now you gotta unmake it._

Boom.

_Put him back together._

Boom.

_Make him smile again._

Boom.

_He’d do it for you._

Boom.

_He’d do -anything- for you_.

And that knowledge settled in his bones, comforting and terrible in its power.But he could breathe again.The anger ebbed, fading into a dull sort of ache.

The targets were all too easy.He knew he ought to pretend to miss sometimes, but it was hard-wired.Thirty minutes in he felt the younger man watching him.It didn’t take much longer for the older man to drift away from a conversation with a homely looking woman (who was, Bucky noticed, a damn good shot).

He stopped to reload, and had to consciously remind himself not to touch the barrel with his left hand; it would be hot, and normal people would be burned.It was convenient when he had to reload fast.There were sensory receptors in the arm but they were purely informational; the metal wouldn’t burn or melt at any temperature that wouldn’t kill him in seconds anyway.

“You’re military,” the older man said.

“Once upon a time,” he replied mildly.

“Must have been a sniper, with that accuracy.”

Bucky shrugged.

“There’s a better range, outdoor and much bigger, about 45 minutes north of here.Not much space in the city for the real deal.”

He didn’t know about that.There was space here, lot after lot, crumbling homes, _blight_.He’d ridden the bike through beautiful areas, but three blocks out of Steve’s neighborhood and the decay became evident.It wasn’t a coincidence that Steve was here.Without realizing it, he’d sought a place as fragile as him.A place trying to find its way, to be reborn in the specter of a ruin beyond its own making.

_Detroit, Michigan._

“You’ve got a good place here,” Bucky said, and meant it.He held out his right hand.“I’m James.”

“So am I, but most people call me Jim,” the other man said, and shook his hand firmly.“I wonder if you’d like a challenge, James?”

“I’m listening.”

“Twenty-six years ago I was drunk as a skunk on White Russians and I hung a Christmas ball up in the rafters.Stuffed a hundred dollar bill in it and decided that if anyone ever managed to hit it, they’d shoot here free for life, and have a hundred bucks, to boot.Fancy a try?”

“No one’s hit it in twenty six years?”

“No one.”

“How many people have tried?”

“Oh, at least two dozen every holiday season.Two this week.”

Bucky looked up and scanned the ceiling.It was at least forty feet high, criss-crossed with beams and rafters.There, on the far left, he saw a glimmer of red.He controlled the corner of his mouth, which wanted to rise; it was slightly bigger than the average kneecap.

“This gun?” he asked.He was holding a Ruger .22.Not what he would have chosen for the task, but it didn't really matter.He could hit the target.

“You can switch, if you think it’ll help.”

He shook his head.Bucky lifted the gun - left hand, it didn’t have a pulse, so it required less compensation.He squinted, turned his head slightly to the left, and squeezed the trigger.The Christmas ball exploded in a shiver of red glitter confetti.

Jim let out a delighted whoop.“Well hot damn!”

Bucky set the gun down.The younger man - Micah by his name tag - jogged to retrieve the hundred dollar bill, which cartwheeled madly downward in spite of being stiff and crumpled and dry from twenty six years in captivity.

“That shot was worth more than this,” Jim mused, after Micah handed the bill over.Bucky glanced at the money and had to snort.He had managed to fire the bullet straight through the face on the bill.His brain jammed on the familiar historical figure’s name.He ran through his strategies, thinking of what he knew about the person so that he might remember his name. _Philadelphia, kite and key, electricity, Declaration of Independence, France, those glasses with two different lenses in them whose name he could not remember either, Poor Richard’s Almanac_.Still the name was not forthcoming.

“It’s a gift,” he murmured.That’s what they said about his shooting, way back in Basic.

“Our marksmanship instructor is out fighting cancer right now.Interested in a temp job?” Jim offered.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I already have a job.” 

“Oh yeah?What do you do?”

Bucky looked down at the defiled money.Then he flashed a real smile at Jim, who he found that he liked very much for no particular reason, and said, “I’m a grief counselor.”

Jim laughed hard enough to double over, and Bucky left feeling realigned - but only after convincing Jim to give the homely woman his lifetime discount.Paulette would be cherry picking Christmas balls out of the rafters in no time.

 

 

 

Steve woke, not from a nightmare but from a serious need to pee.He stumbled to the bathroom, trying to remember why he was naked and then trying to remember why that mattered, and then made his way back to the bed.His legs still felt rubbery and traitorous.

There was a note from Bucky on the nightstand.

 

_Had to go out to clear my head.Back soon.Smoke this if you’re anxious or sad or just tired of feelings.Hope it works._

 

Bucky had left him a joint and a lighter.Silly Steve, assuming Bucky needed his help for anything as simple as buying marijuana.In spite of what he said a few days before, he didn’t have any objection to people using it as long as they did so responsibly, but Steve was wary of trying it for the first time alone.

As it turned out, he wouldn’t have to.While he sat there trying to decide if he was physically or mentally capable of making it to the kitchen for some water, and if there were any windows in his path that would require him to put on shorts, he heard the door open.

“Bucky?” 

A moment later he poked his head in the door.He stepped into the bedroom and dropped a plastic bag with a smiley face on the floor.Then Bucky moved close and inspected him, touching his forehead and pushing a few unruly locks of Steve’s hair into place.He smelled like wind and motor oil and gunpowder and Chesterfields.

It was like being punched in the gut; he smelled like 1944. 

“Just woke up?” Bucky asked.In stark contrast to Steve, he seemed to be in his best mood to date.

Steve nodded.

“Hungry?”

He had never felt more apathetic about food in his life.His right shoulder consented to raise in a shrug.

“You should eat.”

Steve’s brain couldn’t generate a constructive response.It couldn’t generate much of anything at all; he was completely jammed.This seemed to galvanize Bucky.He reached across Steve again, just like that morning, and pulled the window open.Then he picked up the joint and the lighter. 

“Smoke this.The whole thing.”He lit it, and even though he told Steve to smoke the entire thing, he took a drag first.It was so like him that it hurt.Beyond that, Steve recognized the smell right away; after New York, Tony had smelled like this all the time.But right now he didn’t have a brain cell to spare for Tony Stark, and so he reached out and took the joint. The worst that would happen was that it would have no effect.But if it worked like Bucky said, and he could _function…_

 

 

 

Steve emerged thirty minutes later.He’d lost that Atlas stoop that dragged his shoulders down the last few days.That alone made being one of the most wanted men in the world taking the risk of buying an illegal substance off the street worthwhile. It was stupid and Bucky knew it, but Steve never would have tried it on his own. 

As he watched, Steve rummaged through a small pile of papers on the table and emerged with something.He handed it to Bucky without a word.It was a Chinese food menu.

It worked.He needed no other confirmation.He put down his book and picked up the phone to order whatever seemed interesting.

 

 

 

They tried to watch television after dinner, but couldn’t make it through five minutes without being besieged by political ads.That wasn’t what Steve needed, if the way he tensed up was any indication, so Bucky turned it off and went instead for the computer.One thing about missing decades of his life that was slightly less horrible was the fact that he had a lot of music to catch up on.He’d learned how to use Pandora and other music sites quickly; why not, when he had nothing but time to fill with not killing people?He cued it up, rolled a joint of his own, and read while Steve’s head rested against his leg.Steve just stared up at the ceiling, apparently enjoying the rare luxury of an empty mind.

 

 

 

Bucky had always liked music more than him.Understood it better, perhaps. Back in the day he knew every song at the dance hall, or if he didn’t, he learned it fast, and seemed born to move to a beat.Steve wasn’t like that.Bucky saw seventy years of music to catch up on as a good thing; Steve felt overwhelmed by the idea.How did a person even know where to start?

He did sometimes listen to things that people recommended.About a third of it, he liked.But he felt disconnected from most of it, as if something was missing.He supposed it was the understanding of the historical and emotional place from which it was driven.He hadn’t lived through the times, so he couldn’t feel the tide. 

Music was simple when he was young.You knew before starting whether a song was happy or sad, and chose accordingly.Now, it could be sad words to a candied beat, a declaration of love in a dirge, or nothing at all in a manufactured beat.A great deal of today’s music was electronic, or electronically enhanced.That seemed most alienating of all to him.If a person wasn’t making it with their hands or their voice, what was it?Did that count as music?

Whatever Bucky put on, though, was slowly growing on him.The sounds were newer, but the emotions were old, and he understood them.Maybe a little too well. 

Bucky seemed absorbed in his book.Odd, that the name of a street or a city was hard for him to recall, but he seemed perfectly fine reading.Then again, who knew how much he retained?Steve watched him for a few minutes and saw how sometimes he had to put his finger against the page to keep his place, or flip back a page or two and reread something.It didn’t seem to frustrate him.He was used to it.

Steve knew he was staring and didn’t care.The music had a hypnotizing effect, and for the first time in a long time, things felt simple.The music swelled, and the lyrics drilled into him.Lyrics that Bucky probably didn’t even notice.

 

_Pull me out of the aircrash_

_Pull me out of the lake_

_Cause I’m your superhero_

_and we are standing on the edge…_

 

 

 

It took him a moment to process that Steve had spoken.The music and the book - he had to concentrate.He pulled himself away from the War of the Five Kings and looked down at Steve.

“What?” he asked.

Steve seemed to think twice about repeating himself.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky apologized.“I’m a lot better at reading than I was three years ago, but I still have to focus pretty hard.Whatever you’re thinking, say it.”

“No,” Steve said, eyes drifting shut.“It’s stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid a minute ago.”

Steve rested his hands on his belly and pointedly stared at the ceiling.It took another long minute for him to speak.

“Why did you leave me, in D.C.?You remembered.I saw it in your eyes.”

Oh.

Bucky sighed and closed the book.Steve was within his right to ask but he hoped that there might be more time.Of course that was ludicrous; three years had passed.Three years in which Steve probably asked himself that question every day.

_Put him back together,_ his brain reminded him.

“I did remember,” he said.“But only bits and pieces, and I didn’t understand what those memories meant.It was…overwhelming.”That was a tremendous understatement; the memories were less impactful than the _feelings_.The feelings of _I know you, why does my chest feel like this, what are you to me, why would you let me do this to you, oh God, what am I, what have I done?_

“But you pulled me out of the water.”

“You helped me out from under that girder.It just…”

He had to tread carefully.He didn’t know if it would hurt Steve to tell the truth - that he was selfish, that he knew Steve was his only link to whatever existed beyond the shroud of Hydra indoctrination.Steve was the sole person who could help him understand what he was feeling and what he was, and that was both vital and terrifying.Letting him die wasn’t an option.

But once he hit that shore, reality set in.He had murdered a lot of people.Helped foment the disaster that they somehow both walked away from.He was the enemy.No one would welcome him with open arms.More likely than not, he would either rot in a jail cell or be executed.Fast, slow, with a pretense of justice or not, it ended the same way things had always been with Hydra - captivity or death.

He couldn’t.He _wouldn’t._

So he left him.

“So it was just evening the score?” Steve asked. 

There it was, the telltale hardness in his voice that covered up the hurt.He had to be honest.A lie would wound Steve more.When would he learn that?

“No.I pulled you out of the water because you were the only person who could make sense of anything.But I didn’t know who you were, not really.You were someone I had known before, who seemed to be kind…and if you died, I would never understand.There would be nobody to help put the pieces into any kind of meaningful picture.”

To his surprise, Steve nodded even as his eyes went glassy.

“It’s horrible, waking up to a place and time and people you don't understand.”He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.“I did that to you.”

“Not quite.I understood the world, Steve, just not _myself_.”

He took a deep breath, and then pulled his hands away.His eyes were red and the lashes clumped together.The well of pain had not gone dry.

“If I was the only one who could help you understand, why did you leave?”

“Where would I be now, if I stayed?Don’t you dare say living free.I would be in jail or dead.You know that.”

“I would have made sure you got a fair trial.There is no way they could have convicted you, no way.”

Steve was still clinging to some small part of the America he thought he fought for.Bucky had no such confidence in the legal system.He had practiced his reading those years out in the world, working his way up to legal texts. While there were large and vexing problems with prosecuting him, there were too many factors outside his or Steve’s control to guarantee the verdict they wanted. If people wanted a scapegoat, usually they got one.

He tried to be gentle.

“Go to trial, in this world?The one where we have Guantanamo Bay?Where police officers shoot unarmed citizens and nothing happens?The world where some people think _you’re_ a bigger threat than the man behind the curtain?”

Steve sighed and his breath was ragged.“Sometimes,” he said, “I wish you weren’t so damn smart.”

“One of us has to be, pal, or we don’t have much going for us.”

A faint smile tweaked Steve’s lips.The urge to run his thumb along that full bottom lip hit Bucky, and it was _familiar_.It went with a set of memories in the back of his mind which he sometimes drifted to in his dreams, but didn’t dare touch in waking hours.He picked up the book instead, knowing he had to occupy his hands. 

_Put him back together.Don’t break him more._

Steve let him read for a few minutes, or at least he pretended to read; the window of concentration had passed.

“You like those books?” Steve asked. 

“So far.”

“I never read past the first one.”

“Got this and the third one at a thrift shop for two dollars.You can read them when I’m done.”

“Do a bunch of people die?”

“You mean do the good guys die?”

Steve heaved an irritated sigh and sat up in a smooth contraction of abs.“I’ll pass.”

Bucky suppressed his smile.It had always been absurdly easy to nettle Steve, and though many things had changed, that was apparently not one of them.Steve roamed the small apartment, opening and closing things, restless.Bucky waited.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he said.

“Already do.”

Steve glared at him, but plowed on.“I want to go out.I feel like I’ve been in this apartment forever.”

“Okay.Where are we going?”

“I don’t know.I’ve barely gone anywhere since I came here, except the grocery store.”

Bucky understood that.There was an art to being inconspicuous, and it included not being out in public more than necessary.Besides, what fun was there to be had when you couldn’t get drunk?Life revolved around food (acquiring it, cooking and eating it), television, books, the internet if you could reliably steal it from someone else.Four walls that had working windows and doors still managed to start feeling like a prison if you chose to stay inside them long enough. 

He picked up the computer.It took three minutes to find a bar that seemed nondescript enough to ensure no one would remember them.Even if they couldn’t get drunk, Bucky did still like the taste of alcohol.Memories were very sensory, he’d realized, and most of the ones soaked in booze were of Steve or whirling around in naive ecstasy in a hot club with some girl who would never mean as much to him as Steve.There were a few unexamined memories in his head that were more somber, but even those - they were _before_. 

Steve went to change, and too late Bucky realized that the clothing he’d purchased at the thrift store was in the bedroom.Well, fuck it.Had he not held the man up naked in the shower the day before?

To his surprise, Steve was examining the thrift store clothes when he walked in.

“You don’t have enough clothes for both of us,” Bucky said.It was true; most of it was for running or sleeping, and Steve sweated so much running that things could not be reworn without being washed.He was in dire straits, with Bucky wearing his clothes and having neglected the laundry in favor of crippling depression for the last few days.Bucky resolved to do it for him, if he could figure out how to work the stackable machine.He mostly washed things in the sink or tub and hung them to dry.Though, truth be told, he had not had much use for cleanliness before awakening to this reality.When he was finished with a mission his clothes were taken away, and new ones awaited when he was thawed out.The smell or condition of those clothes was irrelevant.

Steve shook his head.“People used to send me things for _free_ , Bucky, hoping that someone would take a picture of me wearing it.Like I’m some kind of fucking billboard.”

“The future is weird.” 

“ _So_ weird.”He handed the bag over.“The only thing I ever wore was the workout clothes.The expensive stuff is good and I’d never spend 80 dollars on a pair of shorts otherwise.”

“I got all that for 23.”And it was decent stuff, probably from the back of a rich kid’s closet - a kid who had no idea what it was like to wear something until it was threadbare, and then patch it up and wear it again.

“You’ll have to take me to that thrift store.”

“Or just do your laundry.”

Another rusty smile plucked at Steve’s lips, and the two of them finished changing in comfortable silence.And if Bucky was looking at his body while it happened, taking in the the peaks and valleys and scars, the centipede crawl of the once-stapled incision on his stomach, well…

You had to catalogue the pieces before you broke out the glue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song in this chapter is Lucky by Radiohead.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some homophobic behavior/language in this chapter.

Steve knew right away that something was wrong when they arrived at the bar.Bucky’s demeanor shifted, tightening into something watchful. 

“What is it?” he said, immediately raising his own guard.

Bucky bit off an annoyed sigh.“The bartender.”

“What about him?”Jesus, if Bucky recognized him, was he Hydra?This close?Twelve blocks from Steve’s apartment?He’d only brought a knife but he knew secreted somewhere down in that thrift store clothes (that looked unreasonably good on Bucky), there were probably three guns, five knives, and God knew what else.

“Met him at the shooting range earlier.”Bucky lit a cigarette; he was appalled that nobody could smoke anywhere these days, and had made sure to choose a bar where it was accepted.Steve still remembered what it was like to be asthmatic, so he appreciated those laws.Bucky’s eyes were dark, calculating.

“ _And_?” Steve prompted, on edge.

“And he’ll remember me.”

“Well, you can shoot the antenna off a fly, so, yeah, most people would remember you if they met you at a _shooting range_.”

“I never tried that, actually, but I’m going to next time I see a fly.”

“So what are we doing?Going home?”A part of him was disappointed, but another was relieved.It was more than he expected, being out among people.He felt exposed, though there was no recognition in the eyes of the people who looked at him; just interest.He had gotten used to it for a short time living in D.C. because by the principles of anthropology and symmetry, he was attractive now.He rarely wished for his old body back but no one had ever noticed him then, and right now he craved that ability to disappear without trying.He hadn’t really understood how invisible he was until he _wasn’t_. 

He was surprised at the speed and vehemence with which Bucky next spoke.“ _Hell_ no, we’re not going home.You wanted out.We’re staying out.”

“Bartender won’t make us?”

“No.”Bucky handed the cigarette to Steve and then he was on the move.Steve looked at the half-smoked butt, and then put it out in the closest ashtray.Bucky was making a beeline for the bar, right toward the man he knew.He had a kind face and thick but well-groomed beard which made him look older than he was.He hoped that Bucky was right that he wouldn’t recognize them.

Steve frowned and moved close enough that he could intervene if Bucky lost control, but not so close that he looked like he was worried about it.He didn't think he had to.Ever since the apology, Bucky had been different.Less strained.Less robotic.It was like a wall had come down.Or maybe…maybe it was just familiar territory, taking care of Steve.

There were two things in his mind dueling for attention.One, a burgeoning suspicion that Bucky had not been entirely truthful with him about his departure from Wakanda.And two, that Steve had really, really missed being taken care of by anyone, but especially by Bucky.There was a time when he would have felt ashamed and selfish about it, but right now he couldn’t muster those things.Not when Bucky was turning back from the bar, two drinks in hand, looking, for all the world, like nothing had changed except the year and his hairstyle.

 

 

 

He sauntered up to the bar, watching Micah as he took orders and flipped taps.He looked very different here.Comfortable, for one thing.Confident, for another.This was the first job; the gun range was the second. 

The bar was Thursday night busy, but not truly crowded, and it didn’t take long for Micah’s roving eyes to spot him.A little surprise registered there, but then he offered a hand and a smile.

“Long time no see, sharpshooter.”

Bucky shook his hand.“If I had any idea I’d see you here, I would have kept the hundred dollar bill for you to break.”

“Oh, it would have gone up on the wall with your signature.Destroyer of Christmas Balls.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve ever been called.”Not even close.“So, my friend over there, he’s…unemployed and pretty miserable about it.”It wasn’t technically a lie.“He needs something strong, but preferably something that doesn’t taste like jet fuel.He’s got a tender constitution.”

“Don’t we all, these days,” Micah nodded, clearly sympathetic.“Beer?Wine?Liquor?”

“Whatever you’d drink, if it was you.”

Micah considered him with a slightly bemused expression.Bucky had no idea what was behind it, and it made him want to fidget.Fortunately, Micah reached for a glass, walked a little ways down, and flipped a tap.

“Barleywine, 12.2%. Tell him to drink it slow and come back for seconds if he likes it.”Micah tilted his head, squinting at Steve.“He’s big, he can probably handle a third, but I don’t recommend more than that.What about you?”

He had no idea what barleywine was; he hadn’t ordered a drink in years and hell if he knew what _anything_ was.The menu that sat on the bar was laminated, the edges curling, and he could not believe that the five dozen items on it were all _beer._ Something did catch his eye, though; each beer had a location next to it, presumably where it was brewed.There were six beers from Brooklyn.

“Give me whatever beer from Brooklyn is your favorite.”

 

 

 

Steve watched Bucky as he lit another cigarette, something fragile quivering in his chest.Natasha said that he could pretend at normalcy with people who meant nothing to him (and to whom he meant nothing in return), but that faced with a real human relationship, he would crack.Steve didn’t know what he was looking at right now - the real or the pretend.

But why would he pretend?He hadn’t before, when he pulled the gun, when he bent a knife into a right angle trying to express himself, when he flicked that ash on the kitchen floor…when he pinned Steve to the damn couch in what was conclusively the worst scare of his life.Bucky wanted to be accepted as he was now - whatever and whoever that was.It made no sense to pretend to be someone else once Steve gave that acceptance.

Maybe, just maybe, there was more left in there than Bucky thought.Though he could understand not trusting it to be true; sometimes he wondered what was left of the man he’d been once.

His gut told him that this was _real._ Bucky had been here less than a week and he _knew_ people.He spoke with the bartender easily, even companionably.Steve knew in great detail how strangers looked at one another, because when he awoke every person in the world was a stranger to him.Yet the bartender looked at Bucky like he was someone both interesting and above suspicion after just one meeting.There was nothing more Bucky than that. 

Bucky had always known how to talk to people.He was born with charisma and the looks to match.He was magnetic.Steve had always felt that maybe one day, Bucky would wake up and realize he was wasting his time with the shrimpy kid from down the avenue…but he never had.An unexpected lump formed in his throat.It was simultaneously so strange and so _perfect_ to be here with him now.

“You’re looking a little misty there, pal,” Bucky said, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth.It was an old habit.You didn’t blow smoke in an asthmatic’s face.“That barleywine working on you?”

“No.But I like it.”

“I like mine, too.” 

“What do you keep staring at?” Steve asked, trying to steer toward safer thoughts.

“Those goons on the pool table.” 

“They have been hogging it, haven’t they.”

Bucky nodded.His eyes narrowed slightly as he contemplated the two men.One was stocky, with a bandana on his head and a motorcycle jacket, and the second was tall and lean, with a white beard and hair gone yellow at the ends.The first man’s teeth were unnaturally white and uniform - veneers.The second was missing at least three teeth and it didn’t stop him from leering every time the waitress went by.

“They’re pretty good.Not good enough to beat us,” Bucky said.

“Speak for yourself.”

“Come on, Steve.You’re not as good as me, but you’re still a much better shot than most.And that shield?I’m not the only one who could knock the antenna off a fly.”

He smiled but knew it didn’t reach his eyes.This was harder than he thought.It was a real effort to act like a normal person out at a bar with a friend, even with the marijuana calming the churn of his thoughts. _He_ was the one pretending.But sometimes you had to, and he was glad he was out of the apartment.More than that, he was glad that Bucky seemed at ease.

“You don’t play pool with a gun or a shield, Buck.”

“Well, no shit.But the angles and the laws of physics are the same, smart ass.”Bucky drained the last of his beer - something called Sweet Action, Steve noted and suppressed a strong urge to roll his eyes - and tipped forward off his bar stool.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” Steve warned.He meant it, but he wasn’t going to stop him.

Bucky grinned.“Only if they’re sore losers.”

 

 

 

He didn’t give them time to be sore losers.Bucky stepped up to break, squinted, tilted his head to the left, and sunk everything but the 8 ball.That he left for Steve, who was not very pleased, but made the shot.

 

 

 

It was snowing as they walked home.Bucky puffed away on yet another cigarette, and this time Steve joined him.Their feet crunched in the half inch of snow that had accumulated.

“Beer is a lot better now,” Bucky said.“So many kinds.Shame we can’t feel it.”

Steve made a noncommittal noise.The weed was wearing off and he was tired from doing something more than existing.That, and watching Bucky be _Bucky_ \- new, old, something in between - was waking things up inside him.Things that never quite went dormant, but at least faded into something he could ignore.

His mind was pulling him away from the moment, to a place he didn’t want to visit but couldn’t seem to avoid.He slowed his pace and tried to fight it off.If they could just make it home…if he could get behind a closed door… 

For a moment Bucky didn’t notice him lagging behind.Then, when he realized Steve’s footfalls were no longer crunching alongside his, he stopped and turned.Steve stood under a streetlight, face turned up to the snow.He hated snow.

Bucky set their six pack down on the ground.Then he walked back to Steve, hands in pockets.He joined him in the pool of light. 

“Where are you right now?” he asked, voice soft.

Steve gave up on the charade and met Bucky’s eyes.Focused. _Real_.The snow was melting in his hair, making it curl at the ends.

“A bombed out bar in London,” he answered.“Roof was off, front door blown in, rubble everywhere, but there was still one table, one chair.”

_An allegory of your life, Steve,_ that little voice chimed in.

He ignored it, but there was a hitch in his voice when he spoke again.“People had already picked off whatever was left behind the bar by then, except one bottle.It was something French and it was terrible.Should have known, why else would it be left behind?I drank that whole thing in the hopes that for one second, one stupid second, I could feel something else.”

_Or have an excuse to lose control._

“Did it work?”

Steve let out a mirthless chuckle.“No.I just felt sick to my stomach from how sweet it was and had to smell it coming out of my pores for the next two hours.As if I didn’t already feel bad enough.”

Steve felt his eyes brimming and hated himself.Not for the emotion, but for being such a mess in front of someone who had suffered so, so much more than he.How could Bucky look him in the eye?And how could he do it like he was now, like he wanted to knock out the teeth of whoever dared to hurt him? 

_Trauma isn’t competitive, Steve,_ Sam’s voice echoed in his head. _Doesn’t matter if someone else had it worse.Doesn’t nullify your experience._

“Why were you sitting there drinking shitty French booze anyway?” Bucky asked.

_Because I couldn’t save you._

_Because I put you there, in the line of fire._

_Because I forgot we weren’t invincible; I felt that way with you._

_Because I should have just told you to go home instead of asking you to join the Commandos, because I knew they tortured you and didn’t do nearly enough to comfort you, because I couldn’t see past my own selfish need to have you there…_

_Because I knew something was different about you and I ignored it._

_Because I didn’t look for you.I should have looked, even just to have something to send home to your family.I should have looked._

_Because no matter how long I live, how hard I work, how many people I kill, I will never destroy all of Hydra._

The list went on and on, an endless march of culpability that he felt then, in that bar, and every moment of every day since.

“Because you died.”

And it still felt like being gutted, even now.Even when Bucky was standing right in front of him, blue eyes blazing.Looking right through him.

“Don’t,” he said, with the same vehemence as earlier.“ _Don’t_.I chose to be there.I _wanted_ to be there.If you told me to go home I wouldn’t have listened.Sound familiar, you stubborn, musclebound idiot?”Bucky reached up and cupped his face, right hand warm, left hand cold.He gave Steve a gentle shake.“Everything in the world isn’t your fault.People make their own choices.I wanted to be there then, and I want to be here now, and I don’t think any less of you than I ever did because of what happened in between.How can I make you believe that?”

Steve opened his mouth but had no idea what to say.No one had ever laid it out like that.His silence didn’t seem to matter; he could see in Bucky’s face that he was in the process of answering his own question. 

 

 

 

It hit him hard.Why Steve looked like a kicked puppy all night.He tried to hide it, to go through the motions, though sometimes the wisp of a smile was real.The irritation at the pool table was definitely real.He had done that on purpose, just to see if he could provoke that reaction.He was sure Steve was still in there somewhere, among the rubble.

He was, but the excavation was disturbing many things that he’d buried over the years.On the couch earlier, when Bucky wanted to touch him - and he _wanted_ it, with an intensity that was foreign - he stopped himself because he thought it would confuse Steve.Pressure him.Make the situation worse.Hell, it confused Bucky.Always had.

But hearing that he tried to drink himself into oblivion after that day in the Alps, and his eyes and his voice tonight, and the _memories…_

Bucky had been here, once.It was the day, the hour, the _minute_ he realized that Peggy was the woman he had never been able to find for Steve back in Brooklyn.He couldn’t take that away from Steve.He and Peggy were going to get married and have beautiful children and he would be Uncle Bucky because Steve deserved that.He deserved it so much.It ripped Bucky’s insides to bloody ribbons.He smiled anyway and no one was the wiser, because he could fake it better than Steve.

_Because you died,_ he said.And the unspoken: _then you lived_.

Steve’s insides had been ripped apart for years.Three years, to be exact.About the same length of time Bucky suffered, back then.

He was wrong before.If he gave in to that urge to reach back in time to before they were broken and the worst of their worries were money and jobs and whether Steve would catch the flu or pneumonia that winter, and oh, yeah, if looking at one another a little too longingly after a few drinks and sometimes even when they were sober meant they were _queer,_ it wouldn’t break Steve more.It would be a life preserver.Maybe it could tow him back to shore.Maybe it could help save them _both_.

Given permission, that _want_ flared to life again, filling his chest.It was not quite sexual, but it was selfish.His glance drifted from Steve’s eyes to his lips.A second later Bucky leaned forward, decisive, and kissed him. 

 

 

 

Oh.

It…he hadn’t…but…

_Oh._

That internal voice was screaming, the one that always berated him, but Steve couldn’t hear it just now.Because…

_Bucky_.

 

 

 

Out of the two of them, Steve was the instigator.But if Bucky was honest, it had always been him when it came to this.It had always been Bucky - from that first time, so drunk he could hardly see but burning with the need to make sure he didn’t die without ever kissing Steve’s perpetually swollen lips, to the last time before the fall, a few stolen moments in a stable whose horses had long since been slaughtered for meat.Steve asked him to teach him how to dance so he wouldn’t crush Peggy’s toes.There was maybe less dancing than advice on how to kiss her to seal the deal, which of course meant Bucky had an excuse to slot his lips over Steve’s and show him just what to do.They had laughed then, cheered by their progress against Hydra and the fact that maybe there was an end in sight.No idea of what awaited them.It was better that way.

Finding no resistance in the present, he parted his lips, touched his tongue to Steve’s.A portion of him was afraid; he had not felt anything remotely sexual in so long, but was too embarrassed to ask the doctors in Wakanda if it was because of his brain damage.Or worse, if it was psychosomatic.No one could blame him, but how many ways could he be broken?

There were things in life that were intrinsically good - food, drink, music, sex, laughter - and he wanted to reclaim all of them.He had not realized how badly he wanted that until this moment.If he was going to find his way he knew that there was no better place, and no better person.Frankly, there was almost no one else he would _trust_ for something like this.He had to commit. 

Bucky stepped closer, putting them chest to chest, hip to hip.Steve’s hands wound into his hair, and he let go with a small, needy sound, kissing back with abandon.Ah.There.Something warm curled in his belly, shot down to his toes and all the way up to his scalp.Abstractly, he wondered what his brain scan looked like now. 

He had not kissed Steve nearly enough, back when he had the chance.He was too afraid to act on the impulse until the wee hours of the morning the day he was supposed to ship out.He left the dance hall alone, and probably would have passed out on the way home if not for the singularity of purpose that had overtaken him.He was not going to die without knowing what it was like, just once.

He didn’t remember much, except that Steve had kissed him back and he woke up next to him in a cocoon of warmth that both made his hangover tolerable, and the thought of going to war completely intolerable.To this day, he had no idea how he made it out of that bed.Perhaps it was the knowledge that Steve wouldn’t let him stay.He never reneged on a promise, and wouldn’t let Bucky do it, either.

The next time he kissed him was after the rescue.Bucky, still cold, hungry, confused, _hurting_ , had a hard time differentiating between his anger over his own unwilling torture and the fact that Steve had willingly subjected himself to government experiments.He was happy to see him, achingly so, but also furious.Furious at the lengths Steve had gone to in order to get there, just to be met with more death and horror than anyone could imagine.

He hadn’t realized he was shouting those things at him until Steve’s face began to crumble.It was ridiculous, the way Steve folded into that big, hyper masculine body that he still didn’t fully understand.That was when he realized that this was still his Steve, even with the big hands and tree trunk thighs and towering height.Still Steve, who would stick up for everyone and everything but himself.He might not be physically fragile anymore, but he was still a delicate tangle of nerves very much tied to the thoughts and feelings of a select few people.The most important of which was haranguing him, grinding him back down to that slight man who had more strength of character and leadership ability than any other son of a bitch on the battlefield.The man who was never given a chance.

So he kissed him without any idea of whether he even remembered the last time, because he had a feeling Steve had been as drunk as he was.He ignored the risks - rejection, ridicule, discovery, ruination of whatever it was they had - because Steve needed to understand.He needed to know that he was perfect in any form.

In 2016 Steve responded the same way he had in 1943 - full steam ahead, no hesitation, though his lips were more learned now.He knew how to seal the deal.The world was narrowing, falling away to nothing but sensation.Slowly, Bucky felt his body remembering how to do this…and it was good. 

At least until a car horn honked, and an ugly voice shouted, “Fags!”

Steve pulled away from him as if he had been doused in cold water, and something so visceral flared in Bucky that his hand went automatically for the nearest gun.He wanted nothing more than to put a bullet through the forehead of the fortysomething leaning out his car window and making rude gestures at them.Steve reacted lightning fast, catching him by the wrist.It was a good thing he went with his right hand; Steve might not have been able to overpower the left. 

Bucky was too angry to form words, but Steve wasn’t.However, before he could respond, a woman on the other side of the street shouted,“Fuck off, you narrow-minded prick!”She stepped into the street, her dog in tow, and offered a two-handed, two-fingered salute.

“Suck my dick, bitch!” was the reply, but the man floored it and sped away, somehow not crashing the car even though his back wheels fishtailed in the slush at the end of the street. 

The woman sighed and then crossed the street, the dog trotting happily after her.“You guys okay?” she said as she approached.Up close she was tiny, but he would not have bet against her in a fight.  Sort of like Natasha.

“Yeah,” Steve replied. 

Bucky was not okay, not even a little bit.The gun was still in his hand, and Steve held him by the wrist with a vice grip.It was a damn good thing because he wanted to find that man and make him _hurt_.The violence that filtered through his mind was unspeakable - and nothing he hadn't done before. 

“Just trying to enjoy a Thursday night,” Steve was saying.

“Looked like you were.”

Steve smiled - how could he _smile_ after something like that, Jesus fuck - and said, “Thank you.You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yes I did.If you don’t stand up against it, you become a part of it.It isn’t the time to take the easy road.”

“No,” Steve agreed solemnly, “it’s not.”

She smiled.“Have a good rest of your Thursday night.”

“You too.Thank you again.”

She turned, and the gray and white pitbull bounced through the snow next to her, all the while staring at her as if she was the center of the universe.

“Easy,” Steve murmured in his ear as she disappeared around a corner.Bucky felt his grip loosen, and tried to relax his own.As always, the gun did not leave his hand readily, but he surrendered it, knowing it was better to give it to Steve when he was this angry.

 

 

 

It was insane, how a few minutes of kissing had put the steel back in his spine and cleared his mind.Or maybe that happened when he saw how fast the switch flipped for Bucky.There was no doubt in Steve’s mind that if he had not caught him by the wrist as he drew the gun, the man that yelled at them would be dead.

What the hell was he doing, wallowing when he should have been helping Bucky?As Sam would say, he needed to _get his shit together_.And fast. 

He had realized by now that Bucky struggled with emotions, as a rule, but especially strong ones.He had seen this fury before.The night after they returned to London in 1943, Bucky had unloaded on him, shouting things like _how could you let them do this to you, Steve, there was nothing wrong with you, why couldn’t you just stay home where it was safe, so I knew I had something to come back to?_

He was fairly certain that Bucky didn’t know what he was saying, then, not at first.It had taken him by surprise.He expected an emotional release, but he thought Bucky would talk about what had been done to him, not what Steve had volunteered for.It blindsided him.He had not for one second considered what his transformation would mean to anyone else.For a horrible moment, he thought Bucky was lost to him…but then…

But then he had kissed him, and all uncertainty was gone.Just like tonight.

So, faced with a snarling, pacing, post-Winter-Soldier Bucky Barnes, whose hands flexed and relaxed for want of a gun as he stalked around the apartment, he knew what he had to do.

 

 

 

Steve herded him back out the door, told him to put his backpack on (which was _heavy,_ and clanked suspiciously), and climbed onto the Harley.The snow had stopped and the roads were passable, but it was cold, and he hunkered against Steve’s back as he floored the thing.

They drove miles out, until wilderness took over.It was clear now, and a half moon glowed bright over undisturbed snow.He already felt less like he needed to murder someone.

Steve pulled over and parked the bike.“Come on,” he said, beckoning. 

Bucky followed him, distracted from his anger by curiosity.They made their way into a field, three inches of wet snow heavy at their feet.Then Steve stopped him, hand against his chest, and asked for the backpack.Bucky handed it over.Steve unzipped it and extracted three guns and two boxes of ammo.After giving them to Bucky, he took the backpack and made his way far out into the field, more than a hundred yards.Bucky watched him, not quite sure what he had planned.Once he got to a spot he deemed satisfactory, he called, “You ready?”Bucky loaded the first gun with practiced movements and raised it.Ready.

Steve’s voice traveled across the field, strong, sure.

“Pull!”

And he threw something high in the air - _very_ high, it was his shield arm and he could _wail_ things, Bucky knew that.He reacted instantly.Point, aim, exhale, trigger.Whatever he had thrown exploded.Target eliminated. 

Steve barely gave him a second before he threw the next target.He shouted again, but soon enough he stopped announcing what he was going to do and just did it.He threw two, three targets at a time, not just up, but left, right, straight at Bucky, anywhere.Bucky felt his brain slide into something mechanical but oddly comforting, and for the first time in almost two hours, his heart rate and breathing slowed.There was nothing but the guns and the targets, nothing but the movement of his eyes, his arms, the kick of the gun.Target after target exploded, and at some point he realized he was destroying every last piece of dinnerware that Steve owned.The mugs and cups, too.He liked the glass cups the best, because when they shattered the shards of glass twinkled in the moonlight.

He didn’t know how long it went on, and frankly wouldn’t have minded if it was forever, but eventually Steve’s voice broke the haze.

“I’m all out.”

Bucky lowered the gun, and this time it came easy.He realized he was sweating and breathing hard.Steve jogged across the field with the now-empty backpack.He was in a similar state, a fine mist of steam rising off him in the cold air.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, meaning it with much greater fervor than the words could convey.It was 1:30 in the morning, below freezing, and they were ankle deep in snow without waterproof boots and an hour’s ride back to the apartment ahead of them.There was no place on earth he would rather be.

Steve shrugged.“I didn't like those dishes anyway.”

Bucky felt the laugh coming, not like the other day - that mad, paradoxical laughter after he and Steve began to find their equilibrium - but real laughter.He surrendered to it, reveled in it, especially because it made Steve look happy for the first time since they met again. 

Happiness took away some of the burden in his eyes.It had always been there, Bucky realized, even when they were kids…and he once _lived_ for these moments, when he could make Steve look like someone unscarred by poor health, loss, and constant underestimation.Now he was healthy, and one would have to be a fool to underestimate him, but the loss was still there, larger than ever.

“I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have, earlier, in the street like that…” the words tumbled out of him, careening everywhere, like the plates and bowls Steve had thrown.Much of his anger had been at that ignorant man shouting at them, but some of it was at himself, for forgetting caution.

“There is nothing to be sorry about,” Steve said firmly.“I didn’t know if…if you remembered.”

Bucky had seen couples in other places, unafraid to hold hands, kiss, announce to the world that they were two people with the same parts who loved one another, or at the very least slept together.None of that had been on his mind when he kissed Steve, but after that asshole in the car, he wondered.

“I know it’s supposed to be okay now, but is it really?” he asked.

Steve’s brow creased and he considered the question.After a moment he replied, “It’s impossible to please everyone, Buck, but most people don’t care anymore.For what it’s worth, I never cared.I would have kissed you in the middle of Grand Central in 1940 and I would do the same now.”

Bucky swallowed, trying to ignore how rubbery that made him feel.

“You always were pretty stupid.”

Steve laughed; he’d set up the sarcastic remark on purpose, hoping Bucky would bite.Bucky would bite every damn time if it meant Steve smiled and laughed.Steve held out the backpack and Bucky stowed the guns and ammo.This time he slung it onto his back; Bucky’s turn to drive.

As they climbed onto the bike, Steve leaned forward against him.He slid his hands into Bucky’s jacket pockets and then touched his lips to his right ear, very much on purpose. 

“Left.36 miles.Left.14 miles.Right.2.5 miles.Left.You’ll recognize it from there.”

And damned if it wasn’t the sexiest thing that anyone had ever said or done to him;Bucky felt nothing but warm the whole way home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, everyone.

Conversation wasn’t necessary to determine that no one would be sleeping on the couch anymore.It was almost 3 am by the time they fell into bed.Steve didn’t know how it was possible for him to be tired when he had done nothing but sleep for days, but full-body exhaustion hit him the second he met the pillow.The last thing he registered was Bucky curling up next to him, his natural heat filling the shared blanket with the most delicious warmth.

 

 

 

He was awake forty minutes before Steve.He spent those forty minutes thinking about kissing him.How could he not, when Steve’s face was turned toward him, relaxed in a sleep finally devoid of nightmares?Last night was not going to be an isolated incident.Bucky hadn’t felt so single-minded about something other than missions, targets, and killing in a very long time.It felt damn good.

So did the eventual kiss, when Steve deigned to return to the land of the conscious.It was unhurried and that in itself was new.They had kissed a grand total of four times before this, five if last night counted, and it was always under a deadline or some kind of duress.

The only time it had been more than kissing was the second time, in London, after the yelling.Bucky felt a need to see him, to know what scientific sorcery had done to Steve.By that time he had spent so many years in Steve’s company that he knew most of the secrets of his slender body.The man in front of him might as well have been an alien.

Steve was patient, letting him look and touch and prod.Bucky thought maybe he had never really done this himself, after the transformation.Leave it to Steve to be more excited by what he could do than what he looked like - which was a fucking God.He ought to have paid closer attention to the rise and fall of his chest and the way his eyes darkened, but there were just too many miles of skin and muscle to take in.He didn’t realize what it was doing to Steve until it was too late.

His scrutiny had turned Steve on a great deal, which was surprising to both of them.He hadn’t intended to bring them to that point.Kissing was one thing; that could be brushed beneath the carpet as nothing more than a need for familiarity and comfort.They couldn’t be the only men who kissed in wartime, or out of idle curiosity.But to do more than that…it became something more.Something that, quite frankly, was terrifying.

But he wasn’t going to leave him there like that.Nearly naked, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy, _waiting_.Wanting approval, because suddenly he realized that there was someone who had loved him just as he was, before.Someone for whom he had always been good enough.

So he crossed the line that night, crawling forward, covering Steve’s body with his, savaging his neck and pressing their hips together.He gave him no quarter, because he knew he had to keep Steve’s eyes and mind off how thin he was, off the scars and the burns and the bruises.He didn’t have to worry; when they were skin to skin, hips, hands, and mouths working in a frighteningly easy tandem, thought was not possible. 

He remembered the feeling of hunger, of not being able to touch and taste and feel enough at once.The red welts on Steve’s neck, which thankfully faded by the morning.Watching Steve’s face as he ground against him, cock to cock.Admitting to himself how long he had wanted to see him like that.

Steve didn’t have the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut when he came, shuddering, hot between their bodies.He remembered the fear that lanced him even as he thrilled at his name on Steve’s lips.If they were discovered, the consequences didn’t bear consideration.But when Steve reached for him and stroked with a sure hand, the fear was forgotten.The world dissolved and he climaxed hard, ears ringing, jaw clamped and breath held until he was dizzy.

In the aftermath, he knew that they should get up, get dressed, make it look like they hadn’t just done that.If someone heard Steve, Lord only knew what they would think; probably that he was being murdered.They would come running.They would find him and Steve plastered together, naked, chests and bellies sticky with release.Then it would be pitchforks and jail cells and scorn.

But he couldn’t move.Couldn’t pull away.

“I watched you once,” Steve said, dazed.“Know I shouldn’t have, but I paid attention, ‘cause maybe one day you would let me do it for you.”

“Steve,” was all he could say.

No one came running that night, thank God, but Morita did give them a strange look the next morning.If he knew, he never said anything.He never judged.

Bucky jumped a moment later when a light pinch to his side brought him back to the present.His eyes refocused on Steve.

“You were drifting,” he said.

“Yes.Good places.” _For once._

“I can tell.”Steve said it with a raised eyebrow and moved his hand, a ghosting slide from chest down to navel that made the muscles in Bucky’s thighs jump.He realized as Steve’s fingertips brushed the waistband of his shorts that he was incredibly aroused. 

For a moment he could only blink; it never crossed his mind to be mortified, so shocked was he.He had forgotten that his penis was there for anything more than taking a piss.

But here he was, remembering that it was capable of something else.Had erections always been this _uncomfortable?_ Probably.It was difficult to think, especially with Steve’s hand on his belly, thumb tracking back and forth against his skin.Everything seemed to go straight to his groin.

He looked at Steve, brain stopped.Steve looked back, eyes gentle, questioning.

 

 

 

The kissing alone hadn’t gotten him there.It was whatever he was thinking about as they lay tangled together among the blankets.Steve had a guess as to what that was.

Maybe it was too fast.It sure as hell had been that night in London but he wouldn’t trade it.Wouldn’t take back those minutes, Bucky’s eyes all over him, the simultaneous realizations that Bucky both missed him as he was and liked what he saw now.It was the first time _he_ had reason to like any body he’d ever existed in.Also the first time he realized how badly he wanted Bucky.And he was _right there._ Steve was no stranger to being turned on or to his own hand, but it was nothing like what he felt then, poised on the edge of the most terrifying desire he’d ever known.

He knew it was the same for Bucky.Saw it in his face, the conflict, the hesitation, the _lust_.Only for a moment, though.Then he made up his mind.He chose Steve.

In the now there was no conflict.Just a dazed sort of paralysis.Bucky didn’t have the capacity to be the decisive one, not right now.But the wanting was there, same as before.

It _was_ too fast, but that was how they did things.Steve leaned forward to kiss him again and Bucky’s lips parted like he had been waiting for it.Waiting _forever_.

The pulse of arousal began to bloom, a slow burn as Bucky’s tongue tangled with his, kisses heavy with intent.Bucky had taken care of him that time, cast reason aside, made him come so hard he saw stars.It was his turn.

He let his fingers dip into the waistband of his shorts, just a little, as he released his lips.Teased the warm skin there, so close to the center of his pleasure.Felt the heat rolling off him as he reapplied his lips to Bucky’s neck.All he needed was a sign.Something to tell him to keep going.

 

 

 

Steve was teasing him, but there was hesitation there.Not the kind Bucky felt, once, but hesitation to push forward without clear consent.

Bucky closed his eyes and tried to process the constant throb of his cock, the feel of Steve’s fingers stimulating his skin, and the brush of Steve’s lips on his jaw.Steve was hard, too.He felt it against his leg.Bucky knew that no matter how turned on Steve was, he would stop if it became too much or Bucky changed his mind. 

Did he want this?Yes.God, yes.He swallowed, hoping his voice would sound strong and sure for Steve’s sake; the arousal robbed the breath from his lungs.

“You said you watched me once.With who?”

Steve paused for the barest of seconds, and Bucky felt his lips twitch against his neck.

“No one,” Steve murmured softly.“Just you.”His touch was so light for a person with so much physical strength.His fingers inched closer, but not where Bucky wanted them yet.“I left for work and forgot my train money, so I came back.You were distracted.Never heard me come in.”

“Yeah?”There was a tremor in his voice - excitement.“What was I doing?”

“You were naked in the bed, on your back, touching yourself.”Steve’s lips were beginning to follow the trail of his hand, and the touch of his breath as he talked was undoing Bucky far more than the reminiscing undid Steve.“Jerking your cock.”

Oh, yes.Hearing Steve talk like that was a jolt to his previously non-existent sex drive.

“C-Couldn’t give a man any privacy, huh?”

“You weren’t exactly trying to hide it.Didn’t even pull the curtains.”Which, in those days, were just scraps of a ratty old sheet, but they did the trick.

Breathing was becoming impossible as Steve’s lips touched his navel and his tongue dipped in.“No one…lived across,” Bucky choked out.

“That you knew of.”Steve was winning this game, this incredibly sexy game.“Know what you did next?”

“What?”

“Reached over to the nightstand and took out some baby oil.Slicked things up.”At last his hand slid lower, and Bucky _throbbed_ in his grip.“You did it in a very specific way.Kind of like…”His hand moved.Bucky’s eyes rolled back.Steve’s lips were back on his ear, and his tongue nipped out, tracing a hot little path that put him dangerously close to orgasm far too soon.“I don’t have any baby oil, but I think I can manage,” Steve whispered.

The world stopped making sense because Steve kept moving his hand just like _that_ , and this wasn’t at all how he remembered it.He thought he recaptured the long-forgotten concept of pleasure from music or chocolate or wine or sunlight on his skin or another person’s hands in his hair but _dear God…_

Friction.That was what he had forgotten.Literal friction, the combat-hewn hand on his cock, and the less tangible friction of blue eyes and wide dark pupils watching with a caress all their own.It was sweet and maddening and so was Steve’s mouth when he leaned down to kiss him.Bucky struggled to keep up because he couldn’t stopper the sounds pulling from his throat, but Steve didn’t seem to mind.

He couldn’t stay still as Steve let him up for air.Bucky kept his eyes locked on Steve.He was rapt, lips parted, breath quick.Gorgeous.For just a second Bucky felt like it was a mistake to do this because how could one not _chase_ this feeling?He was ruined.Living without this was not an option, not anymore. 

Steve leaned down to reapply his lips to Bucky’s neck and the spot along his collarbone, sucking on the skin there to the point of not-quite-pain, and Bucky was actually changing states, sublimating straight into nothingness.Steve picked up the pace, scenting his climax.His hand, God, his hand, tugging so perfectly with that little twist around the head…

There was a great pause in his body.Then lightning struck his spine, suddenly and without mercy.Bucky thought maybe he screamed but he couldn’t be sure.He couldn’t be sure of anything, except that he had never felt so fucking good in his entire life.

 

 

 

Bucky was braindead for untold minutes after Steve was done with him.The odd symmetry of the moment wasn’t lost on him; in 1943 he had been the first to put a dent in Steve’s virginity, and now Steve was the first to reawaken his libido after a very long slumber.Where the hell had he learned to tease and seduce like that?He just smiled at Bucky and got up, striding away.Wasn’t it uncomfortable to walk away unsatisfied?

The answer was obviously yes - there was some wincing and adjustment necessary - but still he walked away.Bucky heard him start a load of laundry, and when he stepped back into the bedroom he seemed to have calmed down completely.He cleaned the cooling mess from Bucky’s belly with a washcloth like he did it every day. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bucky demanded when he stood up again.

“I have to go to the store.I rented this place furnished.Those dishes we destroyed weren’t mine.”

Of course they weren’t his.And of course he made himself complicit in their destruction, as if he was the one who had blown them apart into a rain of glass and ceramic shards.

“Steven Rogers.”

“What?”

“If you do not get your ass back into this bed in _ten seconds_ I am not responsible for what I do to you.”

“Is that so?”

“Nine.Eight.Seven.Six.”

He knew very well that Steve wasn’t going anywhere just yet; he had no clean underwear until the washer and dryer were done.Saint Steven of Brooklyn would not go commando.He’d put money on it.

“Five.Four.Three.”

Steve made him wait until two.He relented with a smirk and climbed back into bed.

 

 

 

Bucky kept pulling away from him as they kissed, searching for approval, and it was _so_ strange.He had always been the sure one.The experienced one.

Steve didn’t realize what a step it was for him, last night, to look up and choose to seek another person’s lips.In hindsight he should have known.In Wakanda he never reacted to anyone with that kind of interest.Women, men, it made no difference.He didn't notice them, beyond their potential to harm. 

Bucky was surprised earlier when his memories provoked a physical reaction.Was it possible that he hadn’t…since 1943?That _this_ was the first time he had felt desire?His orgasm, quick and violent and beautiful, said yes.So did the uncertainty in his lips and hands and the fragility of his gaze.

“Bucky.”

He froze.His tongue retreated back behind his teeth, but he didn’t move away from Steve’s neck. 

“Bucky, you don’t have to do this.You don’t owe me.I wanted to make you feel good.I don’t expect anything in return.”

“I know,” he murmured in a small voice.His fingers toyed idly with Steve’s nipple.“I want to make you feel good, too.”

“You do.Watching you…”He had to close his eyes and take a slow breath to temper the naked lust that rose in him.

Bucky pulled back slightly, resting his chin on his forearms on Steve’s chest.“Sharon taught you things.You…you’re _good_.I’m…out of practice.I don’t want to fuck it up.” 

Steve suppressed a smile, knowing that wasn’t the whole of it, but happy to give him the space he needed.“Do you know how long Sharon had to wait for me to know what the hell I was doing?”

Bucky’s eyebrows quirked up towards hairline.“How long?”

“Well, not _that_ long, but the woman is a candidate for sainthood.”

“For dealin’ with you, I don’t doubt it.”

Steve reached forward and slid his fingers through Bucky’s hair.His eyes fluttered closed.He liked that, so Steve kept doing it.

“Steve?”

“What?”

“Tell me what to do.”That crease was between his brows.

Steve’s response was immediate.“Nothing, until you’re ready.”

Bucky snorted and turned his face into Steve’s pectoral.His voice was muffled when he said, “Talk about candidates for sainthood.” 

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”He opened his eyes and Steve’s breath caught at the determination he saw there.“It…it won’t take long.I swear.”

“I probably have a hundred years or so.”

Bucky smiled and let Steve play with his hair until their stomachs growled. 

 

 

It was an hour later, when they had to eat the breakfast Bucky made out of the pan because there were no dishes, that something shifted.He stood at the counter with Steve, smirking at the situation but not minding the occasional brush of their hands as they ate.That was when he remembered how Steve had known what he needed last night.The weight of his hands in his jacket pockets and the touch of his lips on his ear when they got back on the bike.The directions home.

His breath hitched and he couldn’t stop himself.Bucky dropped his fork and all but lunged for his lips.Suddenly nothing in the world mattered except this.He didn’t know exactly what he was doing but it wasn’t important because he was choosing to do it - not for Steve, but for _himself_.

It wasn’t until he dropped to his knees that Steve raised a protest.

“Bucky—” 

He looked so fucking good, cheeks flushed, eyes hooded.Bucky leaned forward, pressing his face against the front his gym shorts, to the hardness he found there.Traced it with his lips through the fabric, the scent of Steve and fabric softener in his nose.

There was a warning tug against his hair.

“Bucky, I told you, you don’t have to.”Boy, was that voice strained, torn between what he obviously wanted and what he felt was right.

“I’m ready.”He trailed a hand up Steve’s leg and goosebumps bloomed in the wake of his fingers.He looked up at him.“You gonna believe me, or do I have to take a lie detector test before you let me suck your cock?”

At his words his erection pulsed against Bucky’s cheek. Steve let out a shaky breath.

“Better not be lying.”

Bucky tugged gently at the waistband of his shorts and underwear, easing them down just enough that the head of his cock poked out.He couldn’t stop himself from flicking his tongue to taste the little bead at the slit.Steve had to grab on to the counter behind him with both hands.

“I’m not lying,” Bucky said.“I promise.”

And he didn’t know what he had been so worried about.All he had to do was try to remember what he had liked, once upon a time, and do that to Steve.He was rewarded with the most incredible sounds and a feeling of intense, dizzying power that had his own cock at attention in the space of a minute.When Steve threaded one hand into his hair and gave a little bit of guidance, it came full circle.He drifted out of his mind and went somewhere else.

He got lost in the clean taste of him, the heat sliding between his lips, his name on Steve’s.Bucky hollowed his cheeks in, trying to give Steve that same friction that had undone him so easily.It was working.His legs trembled and he moaned, feeding the monstrous ache in Bucky’s groin.

“Bucky…holy _fuck_ …gonna come!”

He didn’t let up until he felt Steve tense.Only then did he pull back, just in time to look up and capture his face as orgasm bludgeoned him.Oh, that was perfect.So perfect.Bucky stroked him through it, unblinking, even when one particularly strong spurt left a warm stripe on his face.That was when he put his left hand firmly against Steve’s hip, because he looked like he was going to fall over and the metal arm could easily support his weight.

“Oh…my… _God_ ,” Steve panted, not bothering to act like he wasn’t hamstrung.He leaned gratefully against the offered arm.It was only for a half a minute, though.When he came back to himself, his eyes opened and they fixed on Bucky with clear purpose.Anticipation drew electrified fingers up Bucky’s spine.

Not ten seconds later he found himself on his back on the kitchen floor, Steve kissing him hard and his hand claiming Bucky’s cock a second time.He knew that Steve wanted to return the favor, tease him with his mouth, and he was all for that.But he had ignored his own arousal for so long that Steve’s touch was like fire.Instantly he was close, too close, and when Steve’s tongue trailed up his chin and across the corner of his mouth to gather up his own semen, it was just too much.Lightning struck again, whiting out his vision and sending him off into an ecstatic convulsion.

Steve’s face was the tiniest bit surprised when he regained his senses, but that was quickly replaced with a brilliant smile.

“Guess I…came on a little strong?” he said, apologetic.

Bucky threw an arm over his eyes and nodded, not quite able to find his voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said hoarsely, “you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Steve chuckled.Cold air assaulted his side a moment later when Steve got up.Bucky couldn’t resist peering out from beneath his arm to watch Steve move.The ass on the man…it had always been surprisingly well-shaped, even when he was small and thin.

Steve brought him water and a lit cigarette.In a mirror of a few days before, Steve took a drag first and then held the cigarette up to his lips.Bucky accepted it with a hum of appreciation.

“Isn’t this a movie cliche?” he asked, shifting slightly.There were crumbs under his shoulder.

“Yeah, but usually people are in bed.”

“Let’s not do the kitchen floor next time.”

“What, the mouse trap under the oven ruins the ambience?”

Bucky held his arm out.“Help me up.”

Steve did, and in an unspoken admission of how much they had affected one another, they stood still for a minute, hands grasping wrists until both were sure their legs could be trusted.Steve offered a wry half-smile.

“Maybe I shouldn’t buy new dishes.”

Bucky stepped away from him and tried not to wobble.

“Smart ass.”

 

 

Steve’s legs felt like cooked spaghetti as he walked around the Target that afternoon.He was supposed to be buying dishes but couldn’t stop thinking about the morning’s events.There had only been the one time, before this.He thought maybe after that night in 1943 something would change, but nothing did.To be fair, there had been so much going on with the war that there wasn’t time for anything else, but Bucky had definitely pulled away from him. 

He understood now that it was because of Peggy.Steve did love her…was in awe of her, really, then and always.What he felt for Bucky was subtly different but no less intense.In Bucky’s mind, however, one relationship had a future and the other did not.He remembered thinking that Bucky was withering, somehow, even though he smiled and laughed and blindly followed Steve on whatever fool mission he set.

Steve knew what that was like.Two years’ pursuit of Bucky felt just the same.So did watching him turn into a frozen mannequin in that cryo chamber.It was like ripping your goddamn heart out every day and smiling while you bled out of the gaping hole in your chest. 

Enough was enough.Neither of them had to suffer anymore, not for this.

As he stood in the dinnerware aisle, he pulled out his phone and dialed Sam.He answered in two rings.

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hi.”

“You all right?”

He contemplated the twenty plates displayed along the wall.Most of them were ugly.As were many of the potential responses to Sam’s question.

_I couldn’t get out of bed for two days.I’m great._

_I can’t stop thinking about my best friend.You know, the recovering brainwashed assassin.Who is a man.With a penis.That I would like to have in my mouth and some other places.Repeatedly.And that’s not new, I just kind of forgot about it because I had to._

But really, he hadn’t, because the only people he had kissed before Natasha three years ago (and Sharon after that) were men.He was hesitant to seek anything physical because the spotlight complicated everything, and Maria had warned him in no uncertain terms that people might have motives that didn’t always align with Steve’s best interest.Nevertheless, he felt a pull to understand the world he’d awakened to, to flesh out its changes.He went anywhere and everywhere in D.C.That was how he discovered that there was more respect for his privacy among the gay community - and that no one thought to look for him there.So he grew bold enough to make his interest known when someone caught his eye.Four people, total, and only one ever made it back to his apartment to stay the night.Maybe he was lucky, but none of those men had ever pushed him to do more than he was ready for or said anything publicly even though there was much to be gained from hooking up with Captain America. 

_“_ Steve?” Sam prompted, startling him out of his thoughts.

“I’m not chain smoking,” Steve said, “so I guess that’s a good sign.”

“Most likely.”

“How are _you_ , Sam?I’m really sorry I haven’t asked.”

“I’m fine, Steve.And it’s okay, you’re a little involved right now.”

“Try always,” he sighed.

“How are things going with Barnes?”

“Better.”He examined the set of dishes that he disliked the least.“A lot better.I did what you said.I apologized for making his decisions for him.I don’t think he realized he needed it, but it helped.A lot.”He picked up a matching mug and frowned.It was so small in his hand - fragile.“And we talked through some things.”Sure, that’s what they’d done.Talked.Steve swallowed.“He…he’s gonna make it, Sam.”

“Always knew he would, with you fighting for him.What about you, though?”

“It’s been a bad week,” he admitted. “Most of it, anyway.But I think I’m climbing out of the pit.”

“There are medications, you know.They might help.Depression isn’t just situational.”

“Something tells me those medications wouldn’t work.”Who knew, though - the marijuana seemed to work fine.

“With your crazy metabolism, maybe not.Doesn’t hurt to try.”

He picked up the box of dishes and set them in the cart.It didn’t matter if he liked them or not, as long as there were dishes.

“I’ll think about it.”

 

 

 

Bucky ignored his phone.He shouldn’t, but he did.

He just wanted the moment.A day in which the real world didn’t intrude.Where he could forget the circumstances that put him here, and just _be here_.Last night in the field and this morning on the kitchen floor, the weights around his ankles and on his mind were gone.

 

 

 

“He’s not answering,” T’Challa said.

“I’m not surprised,” Natasha replied.“He was livid the other day.I think he meant what he said.”

T’Challa sighed and set down his phone.“You know he must return.We made so much progress.”

“He’s angry, and he has every right to be.”Natasha chewed her bottom lip.“Have you seen the movies, T’Challa?From the war and the Smithsonian?”She had just re-watched them herself, with the conversation with Clint fresh in her mind. 

“No.”

“Watch them.Then you’ll understand.”

 

 

 

They were easy enough to find on the internet.T’Challa set the first one playing and settled down with a cup of tea. 

The pictures were black and white, grainy from repeated play on a reel.It was a standard propaganda piece, brimming over with American strength and optimism as embodied by Steve.The camera only had eyes for Captain America.However, he had a shadow in every single shot. 

Barnes. 

He never looked at the camera himself, except once.He offered a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.T’Challa knew without having to look at a timeline that this was soon after his time as a POW.Soon after Steve had singlehandedly rescued hundreds of men behind enemy lines, against direct orders, with only one man in mind.

Already this explained a lot about Steve.Early on he was shocked by the lack of caution in the man.How he plunged headlong into things with unshakable conviction.Now he understood how he’d developed that habit.James Barnes had always been there, thinking for him, covering him.

The second movie was much the same, except it focused more on the rest of the Howling Commandos.It was still heavily biased toward Steve, and T’Challa didn’t miss how they glossed over the Japanese man and the black man, but here he saw more of James.His skill as a marksman, his strategic brain, a real smile and a laugh.But still, eyes always on Steve. 

As he cued up the videos from the Smithsonian, he was beginning to understand Natasha’s meaning.This footage was from the same time period, but the men were at ease; outtakes of the real video, he suspected.Here Steve suffered from a similar affliction.If someone wasn’t speaking to him - and sometimes even if someone _was_ \- his eyes were on James. 

Steve’s eyes were expressive to a fault.Most would watch this and see only friendship and brotherhood, but T’Challa knew what love looked like when it shone from another’s eyes.James could mask it.Steve could not. 

He stopped the video and sipped his tea.How confusing it must have been for them, so long ago in a world much less accepting than today’s.To make it more so, Steve’s romance with Peggy Carter was legendary, though he understood that they never had time to progress it much beyond words.Had an agreement been reached between Steve and James, in relation to Peggy?Had Peggy known?He did not envy anyone those conversations.

His own people were less concerned with the outside packaging than they were with the connection, when it came to love.If you found that connection, it was to be pursued.It didn’t matter if the person was male or female if they made you happy and made you better.

He thought perhaps James had picked up on that over the last few months.Wakandans could be reserved with strangers, but their culture was an affectionate one among friends.At least two of the medical researchers had same sex partners, and one of the surgeons, as well.They didn’t hide it.There was no need for concealment here.

He hoped that they were brave enough to act on their love for one another now.He suspected that James’s anger at Steve’s mishandling was a start.T’Challa had not initially understood just how much _both_ men were victims.He did now.

He picked up his phone and called Natasha.

“Find the videos?” she asked, forgoing a greeting.

“Yes.They have given me many things to consider.”

“I do think they’ll come back,” she said.“When they’re ready.James is just very focused on Steve right now.”

“It would seem so.”

“It’s about time someone focused on Steve.”There was reproach in her voice, as much for herself as everyone else. 

“He does seem to advocate for others much more readily than for himself,” T’Challa agreed.

“Some people call that a martyr complex.”

“A common fault of heroes,” he chuckled.

Natasha was quiet for a moment.When she spoke again, her voice was serious.

“What if we never progress past the last trigger?We already know that no record exists.What if he really doesn’t remember? You said it was possible, given the extent of his brain damage.”

“Then James will never be cured.”

“That can’t be the answer.It’ll crush them.”

He had thought the same thing, even before today’s realization.It seemed tremendously unfair, but _all_ of it was unfair.The fact remained that neither hope nor willpower nor any amount of science could restore a lost memory.

“If he cannot be cured, at least now he can be loved.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have edited and combined the previous chapter 8 & 9 into this chapter. I plan to post a stand-alone one shot with the content that I cut out, so stay tuned for that. Thank you for your patience and your continued readership!

They fell into a routine.Steve still ran most days.Bucky slept or read while he was gone, though Steve had noticed he was moving much slower through the third Game of Thrones book than he had through the second.He invited Bucky to run with him, but Bucky didn’t care for it.He could run for hours if he needed to, but said that after a few miles the arm began to hurt his back something fierce.

Bucky cooked, way better than Steve ever could.He told Steve how an elderly Polish woman had caught him fishing oats out of her horse’s feed for breakfast one day, that first year on the run.In exchange for fixing her roof, she let him sleep in her barn for a few weeks and gave him a cooking lesson each night.He’d realized that he could lose himself in it, pass hours that would otherwise yawn on full of barbed questions and thoughts he wasn’t ready to confront.After leaving her company, he continued to teach himself, and the things he could churn out in an hour or two were insane.

They went to Micah’s bar on Thursdays, and sometimes Sundays for Quizzo, in which they finished last every time.Drank their way through the Brooklyn beers and then some.Didn’t feel a drop of it.They smoked, cigarettes and weed, and reveled in feeling it.

With no demands on either of them, it was easy to spend more time in bed than out of it.The internet was a constant, if occasionally terrifying ally.He pitied the poor person whose open wifi they used; if they were ever investigated it could be difficult to explain some of the searches.Like this morning’s - it left them both wincing.

“That is _advanced_ ,” Steve said, moving closer to the screen.

“An advanced level of crazy,” Bucky replied.“Would you actually want that?”

“Well, people do these things because they feel good, don’t they?”

“How can that feel good?”

“I have no idea.”

“Close that.Jesus.”

Steve did as he asked.“Okay.Stick to the basics.Got it.”

 

 

 

They’d gotten the basics down quickly.Steve had a bit of an advantage, because Sharon was an adventurous woman.Once she got over the fact that she essentially deflowered Captain America - who was a nonagenarian virgin (mostly) - she had considered it her mission to try to make up for his years in the ice.He was of the mind that he’d try just about anything once and she was game for anything that made him feel good; he really had not deserved her.

So he wasn’t afraid of the real sex part of being with Bucky.Sharon had used her fingers on him before, and so had the one man he ever brought home.He knew it was pleasurable. 

Strangely, Bucky seemed reluctant.Not to kiss or touch or use his mouth, but to actually be inside him.Steve made it clear that he wanted it - and he _did_ , very much - but Bucky wasn’t sold, convinced he would hurt him.One night Steve resolved to show him exactly why he wanted it, and Bucky agreed without any thought to his own comfort.If Steve didn’t know just how good he was about to make Bucky feel he would have balked at his disregard.But it was Bucky’s choice, and more and more he understood how important it was to let him be decisive even if he didn’t fully agree with said decisions.The more choices he made, the more control he exerted over himself and the course of his life…and the more distance he put between himself and the Soldier.

Steve introduced Bucky to his prostate with spectacular results.That was all it took.That very same night Bucky made another choice, and it was to wrestle Steve onto his back and give him what he’d waited for.

The first time hurt a little more than expected, and Bucky had to work to get him to come, but both of them were happy when it was done.More importantly, Bucky was cured of his nerves.The second time was better, and the third was fucking fantastic, leaving them in a dazed tangle of limbs, incapable of anything for nearly a half an hour afterwards. 

Sex chased away many of the things that plagued them.For the first time in a long time, it felt easy to smile, sleep was restful, and the hollowness of years spent apart began to fill in.It was long overdue, and even though Steve knew they were living in a bubble and eventually the outside world would break through, he couldn’t find it in him to care. 

 

 

 

One morning Bucky decided that he wanted Steve to fuck him, and he wanted it _yesterday._ No caution, no _go slow, Bucky_ \- he barely gave Steve time for lube before locking his legs around him and demanding it.Something protective flared in Steve and he understood Bucky’s initial hesitation a little better.However, Bucky seemed to know what he wanted, and after being made to wait himself, Steve couldn't be a hypocrite.So he gave it to him, pressing inside slowly, and holy hell, that felt _incredible._ He stayed still for a minute to give Bucky time to adjust.He wanted to move so badly, but he could see in Bucky’s face that it hurt, and maybe he should just pull out and try to prepare him a bit better - 

“Don’t you _dare_ , Rogers,” he growled, reading Steve’s mind.

He didn’t, and two minutes later Bucky had relaxed enough for him to move.It was slow going at first because he was _tight_ and it made Steve lightheaded, all that heat squeezing him.But it eased up and his cock slid a little easier Bucky began to pant and moan and claw at Steve’s back. Blood was drawn.That was how they discovered that being fucked turned Bucky into something wild, full of teeth and claws, and the harder Steve fucked him, the better it was. 

The second time Steve took him from behind and Bucky came so hard he blacked out for a few seconds, but not before shredding one of the pillows and letting out some howls that earned them a note from their neighbor.It said: _I don’t care who you have sex with but can you please do it more quietly, thank you._

To Steve’s absolute chagrin, he saw that neighbor in the hall the next day.He stammered out an apology, certain that he would burst into flames from embarrassment.The man just shrugged and introduced himself (Connor), and said that at least someone was getting regular sex, which, by the sound of it, was great.Steve didn’t deny it.Connor went on to say that he would normally just put on headphones, but he was studying for his LSAT and couldn’t concentrate with music on.Or sex noises, Steve imagined.

“What’s the LSAT?” Steve asked.

“Oh.Law School Admission Test.”

“Wow.Okay.You will not hear a sound from us.”

And three nights later, when Bucky started to get loud, Steve put a clean pair of socks in his mouth and told him to shut up because Connor was studying for his LSAT next door.They heard Connor laugh on the other side of the wall.That sparked something in Bucky, and before he knew what was happening Steve had his ass in the air and Bucky was fucking him without mercy, and he was the one trying to hold back, moaning into Tide-scented white cotton socks.

 

 

 

A week and a half later, Connor knocked on the wall and announced that he passed the LSAT.Next stop, Georgetown. 

“Hear that, babe?” Bucky nearly shouted.“He passed.Now we can be as loud as we want.”

But the joke was on them, because that night Connor brought a girl home, and they were the ones listening to sex noises until the small hours of the morning.

 

 

 

It was just before Halloween when Bucky looked up from his book (still the third one) and said, with dire seriousness, “Are you going to vote?”

Life had grown tolerable enough that they could watch television.Once in a while Steve still muted the political ads, but they weren’t cause for wailing or gnashing of teeth.The entire thing still grated on him (it grated on _everybody_ , he was realizing), and it did continue to make his belly churn with an unsavory mix of emotions from time to time, but he had accepted that it was outside his control.

“I couldn’t register here.You have to put your address.There would be a SWAT team outside the door in five minutes.”

“You could sign up as someone else.”

“That’s voter fraud.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and tried again.“Did you ever change your address in D.C.?”

Huh.He hadn’t thought of that.“No,” Steve said.

“Then you’re probably still registered there.Request an absentee ballot.”

“I still have to tell them where to send the ballot, Bucky.”

“You can tell them somewhere that’s not here, idiot.”

“No.Too risky.They’ll monitor wherever I send it.I don’t even want them having a general idea of where we are.And who’s to say they don’t just destroy that ballot without counting it, because it’s mine?”

“Then go to D.C.”

“You think they won’t have people waiting at the polling station, just in case I decide to show up?”

“I don’t care.You’re Captain America.You have to vote.”

He was right and they both knew it.It had been on Steve’s mind even before Bucky joined him.He’d run through this exact exercise and found it futile.No option was a good one. 

“What about you?Are you going to vote?” Steve asked. 

“I’m still legally deceased.The dead can’t vote.”

“Well, depending who you listen to, lots of dead people vote,” Steve said, deadpan.

“That’s voter fraud,” Bucky countered, in a very passable imitation of Steve’s voice.

“God, you are annoying.”

“How’s it feel, pal?”

Ugh.It felt like home.

“Okay.Say I go to D.C.What happens when they figure out I’m there?”

“What’s this ‘when _I_ go to D.C.’ bullshit?We, Rogers.When _we_ go to D.C.”

Steve was on his feet.“No.Absolutely not.”

“What part of _with you ’til the end of the line_ have you misunderstood?”Bucky shot back.“That was the vow.We both made it.You don’t get to decide to go off and do stupid things by yourself anymore.”

Frustration overruled sentiment and he retorted, “You’re the one telling me to do this stupid thing!”

“Yeah, with me there to help.You may have failed to notice, but you’re less stupid that way!”

Steve couldn’t recall ever wanting to strangle and kiss someone at the same time.It was an odd sensation.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I love you, but if you do not _shut up_ …”

Bucky gave him a dirty look, but he shut up.Steve stalked around the kitchen, perturbed.Their tempers hadn’t frayed since that night when Bucky scared the hell out of him on the couch.Today, however, the apartment was too small for two.

Steve’s eyes narrowed.Bucky was a little _too_ quiet.He turned around to find him on the computer, maps pulled up.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Planning a route to D.C.,” Bucky announced.“If I wear the suit to go vote, no one will know it’s me and not you.I can fight my way out with only a few thumped skulls.You can stay here in _Detroit, Michigan._ ”

He repeated it like that at least once a day, so that he would remember.Steve had also heard him murmuring the street names on the way to Micah’s bar under his breath, trying to remember.So far those hadn’t stuck, but there was no harm in practicing. 

“Steve.Come on.I know you feel it.”

Steve put his hands on the countertop, squeezed his eyes shut.He did feel it - had felt it every day for months.The awful sensation that nobody was worried enough, that they were on the cusp of disaster…that maybe he was surrounded by the same ugliness that swept through Germany in the thirties.That people did not intend to resort to extremism, but got there in baby steps that culminated in something inhuman.

He thought of the man that had shouted at them that night as they had kissed in the glow of the streetlamp.He thought of what would have been done to him and Bucky in Nazi Germany.He thought of the people who went to the mosque on the other side of town.They weren’t any different than the Jews who had once gone to temple.

“All right,” he said.“We’re going.But I’m not wearing the suit.” 

 

 

 

Before they left Detroit, Bucky had watched the woman, the one who yelled at the homophobic man in the car, to try to figure out what he could do to thank her.It was easy to see why she jumped to defend them.She had a girlfriend.A beautiful one, with muscles and tattoos and curly blonde hair out of a shampoo commercial.They met at Crossfit, whatever that was.

It took a day’s thought, but he realized that the best thing he could do to thank her was to refuse to be cowed by people like that man.To release the fear and shame that had been with him since age sixteen, when both his thoughts and his hormones took him to new territory where Steve was concerned.To be unabashedly in love with whoever he wanted and to defend other people’s right to the same. 

From now on he was going to tell anyone who objected to their relationship to go fuck themselves.Better yet, to go fuck someone that made them feel half as good as Steve made him feel.How could _anyone_ be so hateful if they were having such good sex? 

Of course, it was more than the sex.It always had been.A certain four letter word had slipped from Steve’s mouth so casually during their fight about voting but there was nothing casual about it; four letters hardly seemed enough to contain its scale. 

_James Buchanan Barnes, I love you._

There was no fucking _way_ he would accept a world where that statement was illegal.Not anymore.So he packed what little he owned and strapped it to the back of Steve’s bike, aware that they were crazy to try to make it to D.C. on that rust bucket and in November, to boot.All because Saint Steven refused to steal a car, saying that the last time he did there was a carseat in the back and the whole damn thing was blown to bits.He still felt bad about stranding a mother and child at the mall.Like that was the worst thing that could have happened to them.

They left Detroit early on Saturday, squinting into a pink and orange sunrise.The weather wasn't as cold as it could have been and the bike held out admirably.No one on the road paid them much mind, dressed and helmeted as they were against the wind and asphalt, although they did get a few scandalized looks and diatribes thankfully muffled by car windows, because neither of them cared to pretend at casual distance. 

Sometimes he settled for a middle finger as a response, at least until Steve noticed and scolded him - _people shoot each other over less these days, Bucky._ For the church lady who crossed herself as they sat next to her at a light, he made sure to run his hands over Steve’s thighs extra-suggestively, grinning all the while.

“Come on, Buck,” he said, but he was trying not to smile.By the time they stopped in western Pennsylvania to switch and refuel, Steve caught on, as evidenced by the borderline pornographic kiss he gave him in full view of a carload of snarling frat boys.Bucky would wager that at least one of them was gay and didn’t know it yet, or knew it and was too afraid to come out to his less than tolerant peers.

It was a shame, he thought, that even now people were afraid of something so harmless.He continued to kiss Steve long after that car pulled off.He would never get tired of it, nor the simple feeling of his body close, shared space charged with meaning.

Steve turned his head and breathed.“We got places to be, Bucky, and it might rain tomorrow.”Bucky smiled and kissed his neck.There were any number of hotels along the interstate and they had been on the road for almost six hours; it was tempting to stop.But rain was no good for riding even when it was warm.They had to go on. 

He strolled into the convenience store to get a candy bar and a bit of caffeine.If he was honest, he also needed to calm himself down.He liked Steve in all forms, but there was something about leather, denim, and beat up old boots.It wasn’t easy to be pressed up against him all day like that. 

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had a weakness for the look.As he paid, he saw a woman approach Steve and strike up a conversation.He recognized her body language - flirtatious, interested.He still wasn’t quite used to people looking at Steve like that.His lips pursed of their own accord as he watched the woman laugh and touch his arm.

“I wouldn’t worry,” the cashier, a teenager with copious eyeliner and a lip ring, said.“He seems pretty into you.”

He smiled at her.Ah, the strange wisdom of youth.

Still, after leaving the store he felt no shame slapping Steve on the ass and saying, “Time to go, babe,” before climbing astride the bike.He heard Steve wish the woman a _good day, ma’am_ and he wanted to turn so he could see her face, but he restrained himself (a minor miracle) and looked straight ahead.Steve settled onto the bike behind him and Bucky waited.

“Caveman,” Steve said a moment later, a note of amusement in his voice.

“I don’t like when they touch you.”He didn’t just say that as his lover; it was as his friend and protector, too.Ever since the serum, people looked at and touched Steve with an assumption of familiarity that rubbed Bucky the wrong way.He had spent years reminding the world that Steve existed and now they all thought they owned a piece of him.

“Mm,” Steve hummed against his back, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.“You have some competition now that I’m hot.”

“I know you don’t believe me, but you were always hot.”

“Yeah, I was a real specimen.”

Bucky started the bike.He was beginning to understand Steve’s affection for the old thing.“If you had any idea of the things I wanted to do to you back then…”

“Do ‘em to me tomorrow,” was the cheeky reply.

Bucky rolled his eyes and turned the throttle, guiding the bike back out onto the road.It felt good to have Steve’s arms wrapped around him and one earbud in his ear pumping a ceaseless stream of music.He liked motorcycles, but he knew it would be impossible to convince Steve to get one that had a sound system; they were too big, too shiny, too modern.He would never deviate from a light, fast, utilitarian vintage bike.Bucky was fine with that except that he needed the music to keep focused on a long trip, which was why he usually preferred a car.

He was surprised when Steve’s hand slipped into his pocket thirty minutes in and fished out the phone.A moment later the music changed and a new tautness on the headphone cord told him that Steve had claimed the spare earbud.The music that began to play wasn’t anything he ever expected Steve to like; Bucky was in the earliest stages of understanding the genre himself, though he didn’t dislike it.As the clever lyrics rolled over him - processed, then forgotten seconds later, because that was his life - one line stuck.

 

_Your love is my scripture._

 

And that - that he would not soon forget, because it was true.

 

 

 

It was a long day but they got there, numb of face and hands and butt, laughing at one another’s cowboy-too-long-in-the-saddle postures in the hotel parking lot.Steve had made up some ridiculous alias and paid in cash.Bucky let it go.He didn't have the energy to lecture Steve on how not to be remembered.Nowadays, people always remembered The Guy Who Paid In Cash because everyone used credit cards. 

Bucky knew for a fact that in addition to his Army back pay, there was an Avengers account Steve could tap into whenever he wanted.He’d seen the card in his wallet, way in the back, shiny with disuse.According to Natasha, he barely used it before and not at all since the falling out with Stark.Once just an easily accessible repository for their pay from SHIELD or other government agencies like the Department of Homeland Security, the account was now buried in Stark’s business ventures to deter the government from trying to cut off cashflow to those they deemed dangerous.If they ever tried, they’d have to audit the entirety of Stark Industries and there was not an IRS agent in the world who wanted to take on that project.Nevertheless, the account was now technically owned by Tony Stark, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Steve was determined not to touch a cent of it, even if some of the money contained within was, by right, his.

Once upon a time, the Avengers were close enough to live together and have a joint bank account.They trusted one another that much.That was marriage level commitment, and Bucky had ruined it.Rather, Zemo had used him as a vehicle to ruin _them,_ to fracture that trust beyond repair. 

His mind was heavy with those thoughts as they settled into the biggest bed he’d ever seen, road-weary but content to lounge together on one third of the enormous mattress.Bucky dozed off for an hour and awakened clear-headed but ravenously hungry.Steve was in a similar state, so he went across the street to the nearest restaurant and brought back an assortment of junk.They ate in comfortable silence with I Love Lucy playing in the background.

Steve leaned over after a while and thumbed a bit of barbecue sauce off Bucky’s lips.

“I was kidding about the competition.You have none.”

Bucky stared at him, a little stunned.He was disarmed, as always, by his eyes.So blue, so clear, so _certain_.He kissed the palm of Steve’s hand, wanting to respond with both sarcasm and tenderness.Words were failing him, though, under the power of that gaze.

Steve leaned closer and kissed him with an odd sort of restraint.Well, there would be none of that, not after those words and that look and spending the whole day thinking about Steve's boots up on his shoulders.Bucky hooked his hands behind Steve’s thighs and pulled him into his lap.   He made a surprised noise, but instinct pulled his hips forward, seeking friction. 

The next kiss pushed him back into the pillows; Steve plundered his mouth, restraint forgotten.Bucky slid his hands up the back of Steve’s shirt, tracing the muscles, enjoying his furnace-like heat.Then he dug the five fingernails he had into Steve’s skin and dragged a slow path down.Steve hummed against his lips, then had to give them up altogether when Bucky used his leverage to grind up against him.

“Bucky,” he said, strained.“Bucky, my ass is so sore from sitting on that motorcycle all day…”

“And whose fault is that?” he laughed.He was harder than a thousand year old diamond and _now_ Steve wanted to pump the brakes.

He leaned his face into Bucky’s chest.“Mine.”There was genuine anguish in his voice.

“Maybe you’ll listen to me next time about the car?”

“Probably not,” Steve said, too honest for his own good.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and weathered a dizzying surge of lust when, just for a second, he thought about turning Steve onto his hands and knees and slapping that tender ass until a handprint bloomed pink against his skin.Where had _that_ come from?Oh, yes.Those things he fantasized about a million years ago in Brooklyn.  It was too easy to craft that daydream, what with Steve's unique talent for finding trouble around every corner. 

Steve’s hand trailed down his chest, digging impatiently into the waistband of his jeans.“Be careful,” Bucky warned, biting back a groan as Steve gripped his cock and began to stroke just the way he liked it.“Remember that time you got me so excited that I finally fucked you?”

It was the exact right thing to say.Steve moaned as if it was _his_ cock that was being stroked with aggressive intent.There was no stopping now, sore ass or not.

“I do remember that,” he said, pausing for a moment to wrangle his jeans and boxer-briefs down, erection springing free.Then he got to work on Bucky’s jeans.“Big mistake.Now I’m hooked.”

And he was, because ten minutes of heated foreplay later he was on all fours _writhing_ under the onslaught of Bucky’s right hand as he alternated sharp, unforgiving smacks to that beautiful ass with lubed fingers coaxing the pain away.The _sounds_ he made as he massaged his prostate, sweet lord.Bucky was shaking with arousal and knew he wouldn’t last long once he was inside him.

It was almost time, because he had worked three fingers in and—

“Bucky, _please_!”

He was going to go to hell, he knew it, but something wicked had been loosed in him and instead of doing what Steve wanted he replaced his fingers with his tongue.This was a rare sticking point for Steve.He didn’t seem to have many of them - he _saw_ that telltale look of curiosity and maybe even interest when they googled fisting without any idea of how literal a term it was - yet somehow rimming was taboo.Well, he didn’t have to do it if he didn't want to, but Bucky had been thinking about it and there was no time like the present.He worked his tongue fervently, teasing, pressing, circling the tight ring of muscle, making a mental note (that he’d most likely forget) to buy flavored lube because this one tasted like plastic.He didn’t need to ask to know that Steve liked it; his breathing took on a gasping quality and his hands clenched in the bedclothes. 

“James Barnes, you _son of a bitch,”_ Steve groaned, voice murderous.

Bucky grinned and pulled back to deliver one final stinging slap to Steve’s behind, relishing the glaring handprint he’d raised and the way Steve squirmed.

“Don’t talk about Winifred that way.”

“Winifred would fucking _die_ if she knew what you were doing to me!” Steve shot back.

“She probably would, rest her soul,” he acknowledged.“Not gonna stop me.”He leaned forward, pressing his very neglected erection against him.The combination of lube and saliva made it easy to slide his shaft against and between those glorious cheeks and he did so, hissing with pleasure.He was being a terrible tease and he didn’t care.“You want this?”

“Yes,” Steve breathed between his teeth, pressing himself back against Bucky.

“How bad?”Even as he said it, he was gripping the base of his cock and lining himself up, ready to go.

“Bad enough to let you slap me on the ass nine hundred times even though I _told_ you it was sore!”Oh, he was getting ornery, but he wasn’t fooling Bucky; in hand he was hard as a rock, tip weeping steadily. 

He ran metal fingertips up Steve’s back and applied pressure at the base of his neck.Steve let himself be guided down so that his cheek rested on the mattress.Bucky took one more moment to admire him, splayed open and beyond willing, before pushing forward slowly.He couldn’t tear his eyes away as he slid inside, joining their bodies together.He was so tight, so hot, and why had they not been doing this _forever?_

“Okay?” Steve whispered, and Bucky realized he had been still for a long minute, just trying to exist with his thoughts and sensations without tumbling over the edge.

“More than okay,” he replied, voice rough with some emotion he didn’t know how to name.“You?”

“I’d be better if you would move.”

What a demanding little shit.He loved him.He loved him so fucking much.So he moved, slow at first because he needed to marshall some kind of self-control or this would be over much too soon.There was no complaint from Steve; if rapture had a face it was his.

It only got better as he picked up the pace, crashing their bodies together, seeking that incredible clasping heat over and over until he felt like he would drift right off the earth.Steve wasn’t usually this loud but anyone within a square mile could probably hear him - maybe he needed his own lecture about how not to be remembered.A moment later Steve pushed up on his hands and used the leverage to rock back against Bucky with abandon.He was chasing oblivion in the place where he’d come close to meeting it three years before. 

Bucky stilled and let him take over.Steve rolled his hips and tightened his muscles as he rode Bucky’s cock, and he couldn’t breathe, it felt so good. _Too_ good, especially when he could see the tug on his shaft as Steve pulled away, feel the squeeze around the head before he impaled himself again, now moving with enough force that Bucky had to brace for each exquisite impact. It shouldn’t surprise him, this wantonness, nor the confidence with which Steve took what he wanted, looking back at him with the fuck me eyes to end all fuck me eyes. 

The temptation to push him back down, pull out, and come all over his still-handprinted ass was high.In fact, he was going to do just that after Steve finished.Which had to be soon because he wasn’t going to last much longer. 

Bucky wrapped his left arm around him, pulling him up so they were chest to back and holding him there.The angle was different but good, if his reaction was anything to go by; Steve gasped like he was drowning.Bucky groped for his cock with his right hand and pumped the silken flesh as he fucked him with hard, staccato thrusts. 

For as loud as he’d been before, now it seemed like the only thing Steve could do was struggle to breathe.Steve’s right hand came up and tangled in his hair, twisting so that he could kiss him.He moaned into Steve’s mouth, control wavering as their tongues tangled, but Steve leaned his head back on Bucky’s shoulder all of a sudden and Bucky knew he was going to come.He sucked a red welt into his hammering pulse as Steve’s whole body tensed.A second later he came with a stifled shout, spurting hotly over Bucky’s hand.He wished he could see it, see _him_ , face crumpled in ecstasy, but he could smell him and feel his radiating warmth and hear the dry-throated worship tumbling from his lips - _Bucky, oh, God, Bucky! -_ and in a minute he would taste the semen dripping down his knuckles, and that was _it_. 

He pushed Steve down and pulled free, his eyes devouring the sight of him stretched and slick with lube, and in two strokes he was coming, painting him in white stripes as the world collapsed around him. 

He was weak and tremulous in the aftermath, thoughts slow, viscous.Somehow Steve maneuvered them down and around so they were face to face.His leg snaked between Bucky’s and Steve revived him with kisses that were so achingly tender he wished time would forget itself, as it had in that snowy field outside Detroit. 

As they recovered, sweating, sated, high on one another’s pleasure, he knew that no matter the result on Tuesday, the ugliness churned up in the last year would not disappear.People wouldn’t suddenly stop hating one another or forget self-interest.Truly, the things they faced weren’t new.Those dark ideals had just gone into hiding as the world grew less tolerant of cruelty and ignorance.But if his time as the Soldier had taught him anything, it was that the pendulum always swung.Always.

Steve pulled the blankets up around them and Bucky burrowed into the sex-scented cocoon.The war wasn’t over, but it felt good to begin again with a clear path and someone to watch the blind spots.The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the bemused smile on Steve’s face and blue eyes full of adoration. 

It was warm, and it was easy. 

 

 

 

“And now, a breaking story from Washington, D.C.Today, on this most contentious of election days, an American icon has reappeared after almost a year’s absence from the spotlight.”

Pepper Potts looked up from the e-mail she was actively staring through instead of reading.She knew before the camera cut to Dupont Circle that it was Steve.Had to be.

She fumbled the phone, dropping it once and letting out an uncharacteristic curse.Tony was on speed dial so she managed that without an additional attack of clumsiness.

“Tony. _Tony.”_

“What?Why do you sound out of breath?Have you found another way to exercise and work at the same time?” 

“Stop making fun of my treadmill desk, Tony, I like it, and -I’m getting off topic.Turn on the news. _Now_.”

There was a moment’s pause while he did what she said.Then:

“Oh.Well hello, Cap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is No Church In The Wild by Jay Z and Kanye West.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voting doesn't go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday!

He went at 5:30, knowing that the biggest rush would be after people got out of work.The more people, the less chance anyone would take a good long look at him.Steve knew it was a long shot, but maybe, just maybe, he’d get in and out without anyone ever realizing.

Pipe dream.As soon as got in line, it was clear that they had prepared for the possibility of him showing up.There were two armed FBI agents that he could see, probably more in plain clothes.A man hovered near the tables, looking over the shoulder of the volunteers who signed people in.This wasn’t going to work.He’d never make it into the voting booth.

“Have to abort, Buck,” he whispered into the phone earpiece.

“No.I’ve got you covered, trust me.”

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Yeah, in graphic detail.Just trust me.” 

He did trust him - Bucky had spent Sunday and Monday laser-focused, on the phone and the computer and twice he went out alone, so he had to have been doing _something_.But the tension now, in the moment, was excruciating.He inched closer to the table, wondering what Bucky had planned. _Don’t shoot anyone, please, Lord, don’t shoot anyone._ He knew how easy that would be, wherever he was perched.

When there was only one person in front of him, a commotion began near the back of the line.Steve turned.There was a man, stark naked except for a large sign on a string around his neck decreeing the superiority of one candidate.He began to shout, to swing at people near the back of the line. 

Like clockwork, five men - including the one that had been hovering over the registration table - moved toward the situation. 

“A hundred dollars and a bag of coke gets you far in D.C., Steve,” Bucky said in his ear.“Now quit looking and finish the mission.” 

Oh, there would be a _talking to_ later, and he hoped to God that the FBI didn’t shoot that man, but the window was small.He stepped past the man in front of him and up to the table.He flipped through the book until he found his name and signed himself in.The woman sitting at the table goggled first at his signature and then at him, eyes huge.There was no pretending that she hadn’t been briefed, didn’t know exactly who he was.Thankfully, she was the _only_ person looking at him at present.

“ _Please_ ,” he said in a low voice.“Please, I just want to vote.”

Slowly, the shock bled out of her.She was in her seventies, he’d guess, still beautiful; her lines had come from smiling and laughing.He could only hope that him begging to do something so simple - something most people took for granted - would stir some sentiment in her.It occurred to him, and probably to her as well, that in the year he was born she would not have been allowed to vote.

She looked down at the paper one more time, and back up at him.The dilemma in her eyes was gone.She pointed to the second booth.

“ _Go_.Hurry.”

He needed no other prompting.He ducked behind the curtain, tried to compose himself enough to read and press the right buttons.

“Bucky, these people are going to get arrested,” he whispered.

“Them or you, pal.Them or you.”

“I _hate_ this.”He hit the button and it was done.Mission accomplished.

“ _Get out_ , Steve,” Bucky hissed.But it was too late; he heard a scuffle, heard the woman protest, and then - 

“Step out with your hands up, Captain Rogers.” 

 

 

 

Bucky adjusted the grip on his gun.The timetable was tight, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to this.If the woman at the table hadn’t hesitated Steve would have made it out.But that wasn’t what happened and here they were. 

Steve had ordered him not to shoot anyone.They both knew he would shoot every person in this place if it meant Steve came out alive and free.He set his aim on the agent closest to the voting booth.His brains could be splattered across the black curtain in half a second, if Bucky wanted it.

_Steve will never speak to you again._

He would, but he would be so angry.So heartbroken. 

His finger itched on the trigger.

_Not yet.Not yet._

“Don’t.Please don’t,” Steve said, so soft.Pleading.

“Not unless I have to,” he whispered back.

Steve took two deep breaths, and then he stepped out of the voting booth.

 

 

 

Five guns were trained on him.Handguns, large caliber.Egress blocked.Dozens of civilians.

There was no clean way out.He wasn’t going to do this dirty.But maybe, just maybe…

“I’m unarmed,” he said.“I just wanted to vote.” 

“And you’ve succeeded,” the agent in command, a thin man with a brutal jaw, called out.“Now get down on the ground, Captain Rogers.”He reached behind his back and Steve saw the magnetic cuffs, the ones they had tried to use on him in the elevator at SHIELD headquarters.

There was a report of gunfire, and he started badly, expecting to see the man’s head explode in a shower of blood and bone.That wasn’t what happened.The cuffs flew out of the agent’s hand and skittered across the floor, coming to rest under a table.No blood.

_No blood_.

One gun was still trained on him, but the others were sweeping the room, trying to find the source of the shot.They would never locate Bucky; _he_ didn’t even know where he was.

“I didn’t come alone,” Steve said, sounding more sure than he felt.“I’m not armed, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt, but my companion _is_ armed.And he won’t hesitate.”He looked at the agent who had lost his cuffs; he cradled his left hand to his chest.His right hand still held the gun, trained between Steve’s eyes.“Please, just let me go, and it’s all over.Everybody goes home, has dinner, hugs their families.”

“You are a fugitive.A traitor to this country,” the man bit off.

Steve tried not to wilt.No dinner and no hugging, then.He would fight, but he wished there weren’t so many civilians - why didn’t they evacuate them, why did they let them stand there on their phones, filming, oblivious to the danger?

“That’s just about enough, son,” a strong voice rang out.An old man with a cane and a veteran’s hat shuffled forward and put himself directly in front of Steve.

“Sir, please don’t—” Steve began, fighting off visions of the FBI shooting this frail but incredibly brave person because of him.

“This man saved my brother’s life in the war.Because of him, Johnny came home and had a family and a life.”The veteran stood tall in spite of his withered body.“Because of him, a lot of people came home that might not have.He gave everything for this country and you have some nerve standing there calling him a traitor.”

No one moved.The silence was thick enough to be cleaved. 

It was a moment later, when a woman stepped forward, boots clicking.She was in her thirties, dark-haired, with deep-set eyes that were frightened of her own boldness.Pale, hands shaking, she said, “This man and the Howling Commandos saved my grandmother and 56 others from being gassed at Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

Steve felt the breath go out of him.He swayed; the veteran put out a hand to steady himeven though he needed the cane to steady himself.It could only be…

 

 

 

He knew that face.Steve was going to cry.Bucky thought that he was ready for it, for the power of hearing that it wasn’t all for naught, but he wasn’t.He especially wasn’t ready for Steve’s reaction.When Steve hurt, he hurt.But this wasn’t like other pains.This was the pain of acknowledgement - the pain of a small victory scattered amongst a great field of loss.Like shards of dishes in the snow.

His eyes were welling and Bucky cursed, he couldn’t fucking aim properly like this, he had to be ready to shoot these sons of bitches…

 

 

 

He couldn’t breathe.He was crying and people were filming it and why did _everything_ have to be public now, why couldn’t he just have this moment in private like normal people?

The woman slipped her hand into his and he clutched it for dear life.

“I never knew,” he choked out.“I never knew if any of them survived.”

“All but three,” she said.“And they were happy to die free in the forest instead of in a gas chamber.”She squeezed his hand and addressed the other people again.“This man and his team gave their food, water, weapons, and clothing to my grandmother and the others.They were behind enemy lines, with limited supplies, and they gave everything away to strangers who were already half dead.They must have gone hungry for weeks, frozen in the wind.They suffered so that others might live.And that’s to say nothing of everything Captain America has done for us since.You are not going to arrest this man today.”

 

 

 

They had eaten roots and mushrooms and sometimes even the grubs and worms they could pull from the earth.One excellent day there were potatoes from some poor soul’s garden, dug up with bare hands, and another day they were lucky enough to find a snare with two squirrels in it.Sometimes Morita made tea with wild mint. But mostly it was the other things, if anything at all, and God, how the belly ached.

Falsworth spent the last half of that mission with a frostbitten toe actively rotting away in his boot.The smell could not be forgotten.Bucky remembered numb hands that he feared would go the way of Falsworth’s toe, raw cheeks, bleeding lips, being so cold he couldn’t sleep.All of them getting sick from bad water and probably only living because Steve recovered in hours instead of days, and heard enough stories about dysentery from his mother to know what to do. 

They fought through that mission gray with fatigue, hollow, hurting.If they thought they were acquainted with misery before that, they were sorely mistaken.But no one said a word, because they knew those people from the train car had been dealing with that and worse for _months_. 

 

 

 

 

One of the FBI agents holstered his gun.His compatriots looked at him, except the leader, who still had his gun trained on Steve.The man just shook his head.He couldn’t do it.

The others remained as they were, uneasy.The tide was turning.

Other people began to step forward and form a wall in front of Steve.One of them, a young man who had probably just turned 18, fidgeted and said, “Uh, well, that is a tough act to follow, but have you people _read_ the SHIELD and Hydra files that were decrypted?Twenty million people could have died three years ago. _Twenty million_.Maybe everyone in this room.He stopped that.”

“I had help,” Steve said.

“Yeah, and you still got shot a bunch of times and almost died,” the young man replied.“For us.” 

That Steve could not refute.He looked at his hands and breathed.Could this really work?Could these people sway the FBI?

“A friend works at Walter Reed,” a woman spoke up.“Saw the Captain’s x-rays that time.Said he has so many old fractures that if he was anyone else, they would suspect a lifetime of abuse and call in protective services.”She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed the lead agent in a withering mother’s stare.“But isn’t it abuse?Sure, it’s convenient for you people, having someone who can take the hits and keep on going.But just because he heals doesn’t mean it all doesn’t hurt.You feel pain, don’t you?” she said, addressing Steve.

“Yes, ma’am, I do.” _With infinite capacity._

_“_ He protects all of us, but no one protects him.It isn’t right.It’s our turn.”She shook her head, dreads whipping.“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but nobody is taking Captain America anywhere today.Not without shooting all of us first.” 

And, one by one, the agents holstered their guns.

 

 

 

 

Bucky had to take his left hand off the gun.If he didn’t he would crush it.Maybe it was for the best, because now he wanted to pull the trigger more than ever.

That time they were all sick shitting their guts out Steve had run five miles each way, every hour on the hour, while still sick himself, in order to retrieve clean water so they didn’t die of dehydration.Bucky was the second to recover - not surprising now, but an unexpected blessing then - and he had run the route twice to let Steve rest.By the time he got back from the second run, laden down with canteens, he felt like he was going to die.After two hours of sleep Steve got back up and did it again for twelve more hours.He probably felt no better than Bucky had, and a day later Bucky pinched the skin on the back of his hand and it stayed peaked.Steve had never thought to get any water for himself, except a handful each time he arrived at the well.

That was the moment he had realized that Steve did not know how to put himself before another person.That he would literally work himself to death to save others - _if_ he could in fact die.Only Bucky was there to stop him from doing exactly that.

And then he wasn’t.

What had they done to Steve while he was gone?What had they _done_?

 

 

 

Steve was in shock as he was led out of the polling station in a wall of people, the young woman still holding his hand and the veteran at his other elbow.He didn’t know where they were leading him and could not seem to put any kind of order to his thoughts.Except…

“Bucky.”

His voice came over the connection, oddly strangled.“Go with them, Steve.Go with them.I’ll find you.”

 

 

 

He was already tracking them, a group of fifteen or so, moving through side streets.The veteran was giving orders that he could hear through the earpiece, orders he was certain that Steve wasn’t processing.It was okay.The old man knew what to do.

“Break off in ones and twos.We’re conspicuous in a big group like this.You two, go that way.You, the other way on the next block.Get away from here and back to your homes.You, trade hats with the Captain.Now you, the jacket.And you, can you see without those glasses?No?Okay, you with the sunglasses.”

In moments Steve was zipped into a Baltimore Ravens jacket, with a pair of aviators and a gray knit cap on his head.He was not immediately recognizable, at least not as the person he’d been on camera.Good. 

Soon it was down to just Steve, the veteran, the dreadlocked woman, and Delia.Delia was the only one in on this, and she was doing her job, leading them toward the hospital.

“Where’s a safe place?” the veteran asked.The question was for Steve, but Delia answered.

“Sir, I’m with them.I know where to take him.Please let me handle it from here.”

 

 

 

Steve stared at the brunette, whose grandmother he had saved.What did she mean she was _with them_ , he had no idea she existed until—

_I’ve got you covered, trust me.Just trust me._

Bucky set this up.More likely than not, she was supposed to meet him outside after he finished and lead him to their escape route while Bucky watched his back.Had he known _why_ she wanted to help?He must have.That was how he found her.

They rounded the next corner and there he was, body tense, full soldier mode.

“Well I’ll be damned,” the old man said, immediately recognizing Bucky.“Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky gave him a terse nod and a salute.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Steve said to his escorts.“But please don’t ever endanger yourselves like that again.”

“Like you do?” the dreadlocked woman said.“You taught us that the important things are worth the danger.” 

“As the lady says,” the old man nodded.“You’re in good hands now.Get out of this beehive.”

 

 

 

Bucky pressed a gun into his hand and told him to shut up when he started to protest.

“We’re almost there but the police have been called by now and this place is going to be crawling in a minute, please just _take it_.”His voice still had that strangled quality to it, and his eyes were puffy.

He took it, tucking it into his waistband underneath the Ravens jacket.Safety on.

“You two go first.Act like a couple.Talk.Pretend.Just look normal.You follow her lead, Steve.I’ll be behind you and I will shoot if I have to, don’t even try.”

Steve nodded, and five seconds later they were out onto the sidewalk, people streaming all around them.The woman - he didn’t even know her name - moved closer to him, and he put his arm around her waist.He had learned this from Natasha.He could do this.

She settled against his side like she’d been there a hundred times before.He slowed his steps so she could keep up.He smiled at her, asked her questions, curled her hair around his finger, kissed the top of her head when they had to wait at a crosswalk.How far were they going?He glanced at Bucky in a curved mirror above a garage. He was a hundred feet behind them, hands in pockets, oozing nonchalance. 

“How is your grandmother?” he asked.

“Doing better since the hip replacement,” she replied.“Spent the whole summer on the bay playing canasta with her friends and drinking wine coolers.That’s the life, huh?”

“She deserves it.”

“You’re damn right.”Her fingers pressed into his ribs - _turn left_.He did, onto the campus of Georgetown University Hospital.She led them past the main entrance, back and back, past loading docks and trailers marked _MEDICAL AND CHEMOTHERAPEUTIC WASTE_.A moment later she pulled a badge out of her purse and buzzed them into a nondescript door.

She pulled at his hand, but he didn’t move.They had lost Bucky.

“He’s coming another way.Please, follow me.We don’t have much time.”

Steve did so, uneasy.He wanted Bucky in his sights, always.They stepped onto a service elevator in an empty corridor; Steve paced, feeling the car jerk with the force of his footfalls.She turned a key, hit a button labeled ‘R’, and up they went. 

Of course Bucky was already there, loading his guns into a bag, talking to a man in flight gear.He looked up at the helicopter and shook his head.This was the way out.A medical helicopter that could, at any moment, be needed to save someone’s life.There were so many things he was going to have to talk to Bucky about before he let him plan another mission.Things that Bucky would most likely ignore.

The woman - Delia, he heard Bucky call her - picked up his backpack and gave it to him.

“There’s some reading material for you in there.I hope you enjoy it.”He made to turn toward the helicopter, but her hand on his arm stopped him.“Captain Rogers, whatever happens tonight with the election, please don’t give up.We need you.”

Steve nodded, and then pulled her into a tight hug that wasn’t acting.

Then they were in the air, soaring away from D.C., his mind spinning as fast as the helicopter’s blades. 

 

“…Seventeen people have been arrested in connection with Captain Rogers’ escape.Authorities can only speculate as to the identity of his accomplice, though many believe it to be either Sam Wilson, alias Falcon, or James Buchanan Barnes, alias The Winter Soldier.As a reminder, one year ago, Barnes, a known assassin, was implicated in the UN bombing in Vienna which killed 12, including the king of Wakanda.It was later proven to be a setup engineered by Sokovian national Helmut Zemo.However, Captain America’s steadfast rejection of the Sokovia Accords and his repeated defense of Barnes, who, while innocent in the case of Vienna, is known to have murdered dozens, has angered many.” 

Tony muted the television.He didn’t need the recap.Pepper was sniffling on the other end of the phone and even he felt wobbly.The way Steve had lost it when that woman said the thing about her grandmother…it was the first time he’d ever seen that kind of emotion from him.The first time he realized there was cause for it.Steve was good at deflection - one of the few ways in which they were similar.

“Tony,” Pepper said.“The first thing you’re going to do is send lawyers for all those people that got arrested.”

“On it.” 

“The second thing you’re going to do is end this fight.He’s already apologized to you.It’s on you now.Please find a way to forgive him.”

“I’m trying, Pepper.I’m trying.”And he really was.

 

 

 

They hadn’t gone far in the helicopter, just to western Maryland, where the pilot (a three-tour veteran named Mike) dropped them in a cornfield.There was a car ready.They waved at Mike as he lifted off, headed to a nearby hospital to pick up a cardiac patient.As it turned out Bucky had been thoughtful enough to pick a helicopter that only did transfers, rather than emergency pickups.Mike would be ten minutes late, but the patient he went for was medically stable and in no danger whatsoever.

Steve almost relaxed, but then he remembered the original distraction at the polling place.Hundred-dollars-and-a-bag-of-coke guy. 

“He knew what he was signing up for,” Bucky said.“Couldn’t wait to take the fall for Captain America.”

“In exchange for money and drugs?”

“That was just me being nice.”

“Bucky.”

“Steve, he was a homeless addict.Said he didn’t mind going to jail because it’s warm and there’s three square meals a day.And it would help him detox enough to give a treatment program a try.His price was one last bender and a hundred bucks to pay back some money he stole from his ex-wife.” 

“You bought weed from this guy, didn’t you.” 

Bucky smirked.“From his friend.”

Steve leaned the seat back, put a hand over his face, and sighed.

 

 

 

In Detroit, an aspiring law student nearly dropped his dinner plate when he sat down to see how things were going with the election.Captain America was on the screen, except he looked _just_ like his neighbor, the one with the loud boyfriend.A picture came up next, clearly a mugshot of some sort, _and it was the loud boyfriend_.

He looked across the room to where a bottle of wine sat on his kitchen counter.It had been left outside his door with a note, which said:

_Sorry again for being so loud.We were making up for lost time.Good luck at Georgetown._

 

 

 

Twelve blocks away, a bartender looked up from his inventory at the mention of Captain America.His first thought was that he looked familiar, but of course he looked familiar, he was a _superhero_ and his face was everywhere all the time.Though not lately, he supposed; since that mess with the Sokovia Accords, things were quiet.

He watched the story and smiled.Good for Captain America.The man’s face still tugged at him; he must have met someone recently who looked like him.Oh, yes.Yes, the barleywine guy.Sharpshooter’s unemployed friend.

“…though many believe it to be either Sam Wilson, alias Falcon, or James Buchanan Barnes, alias The Winter Soldier.As a reminder, one year ago, Barnes, a known assassin, was implicated in the UN bombing in Vienna…”

Holy shit. 

_Holy shit_.

Sharpshooter was _The Winter Soldier_. 

Barleywine guy was _Captain America_.

Suddenly it made a great deal of sense why they were so terrible at Quizzo.

The bartender looked at the dish bin in the slot underneath the cash register.Four days ago, Sharpshooter came in before the bar opened and gave him, of all things, a _gun._

_Don’t be afraid of it,_ he said. _Have Jim teach you how to use it.I hope you never have to, but it’s better to know._

He slid the dish bin out and picked up the gun.Jim’s eyes had gone wide when he showed it to him, because it was vintage.World War II era.Certainly not mint, but in good shape, fired like a dream according to Jim.

The bartender stood there for a long moment, only half hearing the pundits arguing over whether or not Captain America should be tried for treason, whether he’d abandoned them and become an assassin like Winter Soldier.Christ, all the man did today was vote.

_My friend over there, he’s unemployed and pretty miserable about it._

No kidding.They were all worse off for it.

He looked at the scroll bar at the bottom of the screen.The numbers were not encouraging.It was still early; polling wasn’t closed on the West Coast yet, but if things kept on like this…

They were going to need Captain America, and the Winter Soldier, too.He grabbed a glass and poured, and then cracked open a can.He set the barleywine and Sixpoint Sweet Action on the bar.Then he poured himself two fingers of Bulleit Rye.

“Cheers, gents.”

Tomorrow, he was going to learn how to shoot.

 

 

 

Across town, a man held a handwritten note.It had arrived on his doorstep along with a large container full of food three days prior.

_I’m sure this won’t be life-changing like your wife’s cooking, but a nice Polish lady once showed me how to make this, and anyone who can make pierogies from scratch is a wizard as far as I’m concerned._

_Thank you for your help the other night.It meant a lot._

_They are going to say things about me.Some of it is true, but most of it isn’t.I never wanted to hurt anyone.I only wanted to make the hurting stop for myself, I think.Something tells me you understand._

_James_

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The election doesn't go as planned, either, and Steve and Bucky try to cope.

Steve slept.Bucky knew emotion was tiring and so he drove in silence, though he would have liked to turn the radio on for company.As darkness fell and the roads grew more and more deserted, he had the distinct sensation that the world was holding its breath.

Maybe it was just him.He and Steve had always been different in this way.Steve hated the anticipation of a dreaded event more than the event itself; Bucky didn’t give said event a thought until it was actually happening.Each had its merits and its unique aspects of torture, but it meant that tonight Bucky was a tightly wound spring, ready to recoil.He wanted Steve to be awake to talk to him, to keep his mind from spinning out of control, but that was selfish.

Steve was afraid but hopeful.Bucky was incapable of such optimism after all he had seen and done, and as each hour passed he grew more certain of the eventual result.

Tonight, Hydra would regain its footing, and Steve would lose his. 

He had seen Steve at some low points, but nothing like a month ago.Not so depressed he couldn’t get out of bed, so torn apart by nightmares that sleep became a minefield, so _betrayed_ by people and the world.Never had he seen Steve Rogers lose his will to fight.

It had given him a mission, which cleared his head enough to be what Steve needed - to be Bucky Barnes.To take care of him like the old days, push him out of his comfort zone so he could live a little…to love him, in all the ways they thought forbidden before.But the sex was a distraction and not a cure; it didn’t matter how much either of them wanted or needed it.It would not be enough to pull Steve through his country becoming the thing he died fighting.

Bucky suspected there was nothing in the world that could pull him through if Steve faded away.He couldn’t go back to being a half-person, unmoored in a world that didn’t make sense.If Steve did not love him, he didn’t exist.Without Steve, he was nothing but a bruised consciousness hiding from the things that had ruined him. 

A sensation of panic began to rise in his diaphragm.It was the same feeling that had come after the Smithsonian.That had ended poorly, in blood and pain and the barrel of a gun in his mouth.He had not pulled the trigger that day, but oh, how he agonized. 

There was, it turned out, a fine line between the horror of realizing that he had been someone once and the strain of needing to be someone again.But for Steve - _with_ Steve - it came easy.So whatever it took to pull him though, he would do it.He would do it and dare to hope.

 

 

 

Steve woke to stillness and was immediately disoriented.For a moment he forgot D.C., the emotional upheaval, the helicopter, falling asleep in the car while Bucky drove.It was dark now and they were stopped.The music was on low, something with a menacing bass line, and Bucky was in the driver’s seat smoking a cigarette and staring at nothing.

“Need to switch?” he asked, still fuzzy.

Bucky blew a smoke ring and then shook his head.“We’re here.”

He tried to see anything beyond the car window, but it was pitch black.His city eyes weren’t used to real darkness.“Where’s here?”

Bucky glanced at his phone and read off, “Great Smoky Mountains.Nearest town, Gatlinburg, Tennessee.”He pinched the cigarette out with his left hand, which was disconcerting when he had the hologram on.“First stop on our middle of nowhere tour.” 

Steve leaned back into the seat and stared at the dome light.“Guess there’s no going back to Detroit,” he murmured.

“No,” Bucky agreed. 

They had made themselves too noticeable there, and after the news coverage there was no hope of going unrecognized.It was too bad.He liked it in Detroit, and said as much to Bucky.

“I liked it, too.”He was fiddling with the cigarette butt.He must be out; otherwise, Steve knew he’d already be smoking a second.“This place is Delia’s best friend’s uncle’s cabin.It’s ours as long as we need it.”

“Let me guess.Delia’s best friend’s uncle is a veteran?”

Bucky nodded.“Desert Storm.”

Steve shook his head.What Bucky had been able to do in under ten days with nothing more than a phone and a computer…

“You’re incredible, do you know that?”

Bucky snorted.“They didn’t do it for me, Steve.It’s all for you.”

There was something in his voice that was off.The same thing he heard over the earpiece in D.C.Controlled strangulation.

“Bucky, what is it?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly.“Just tired.”

 

 

 

He _was_ tired.He hadn’t realized just how much, and he was dozing on the L-shaped sectional before Steve managed get a fire going in the hearth.He meant to stay awake so he could distract Steve, keep his attention on anything except the inevitable, but it would have been a fruitless endeavor.Once the fire began to warm the space there was no chance, and he dropped off.

His dreams were black and green and full of hands that pulled at him.Bucky jerked awake when the sky was just beginning to lighten.Steve was sitting on the other end of the couch.He was as still as a statue, rigid with disbelief. 

The television said what Bucky already knew.The world was the same to him, viewed through the eyes of a man once owned by Hydra.But for Steve, Earth had shifted on its axis. 

He laid there until the sun rose.The room filled with delicate pink light, and even that could not lend color to Steve’s cheeks.Bucky sighed as he got up and walked over to the tremendous windows.

It was beautiful.Morning fog hung low over the peaks, which were blanketed in a riot of trees in full autumn splendor.The view could not be beat, but his heart ached for the small familiarity of that apartment in Detroit, and for the pulse of a city.Out here, one was truly alone.

He sighed again and turned to Steve. Got down on his knees in front of him and took hold of his jaw, made him look away from the television.His eyes spoke of a deep and wounding loss, but held on to Bucky’s gaze.

“Sun still rises in the east,” Bucky whispered.“I checked.”He tilted up to kiss him.Steve kissed back and he tasted salt.Bucky pulled away and brushed at the tears with his thumbs; it was a losing battle.

“I know it does,” Steve said after a moment.“But I thought maybe…maybe we were ready.” 

And that was what really hurt.

 

 

 

 

Steve was handling it better than expected.He was devastated, but not rendered inert.If Bucky put coffee in front of him he drank it; if he offered a plate of food, he ate it.When he finally turned the television off and stood up, he did a double take at the view he hadn’t noticed until that moment.He looked out at the scenery for a good ten minutes.It was an unsettled day, clouds sliding rapidly across the sky, giving winks of sunshine that didn’t last.

Later, when Bucky stepped into the shower, Steve snuck in behind him.He pressed the full length of his body against Bucky’s back, arms snaking around his waist.Bucky didn’t mind, but he was surprised.

He squirmed as Steve’s lips and tongue began to trace a path along the scar tissue on his back.They had discovered early on that it provoked a sensation best classified as ‘good-weird’.In this case, it was like being tickled and liking it a little too much.

Steve’s hand found its way to his cock and he swelled in his grip. The pulse of arousal was very welcome; it drowned out thought, quelled the fear that been an insistent guest in his solar plexus since last night.Steve stroked him, slow, the friction of his hand made slick by hot water and shampoo that he had not quite managed to rinse all the way out before he was interrupted.He leaned back against Steve and let his world narrow to nothing more than that wonderful, deliberate hand on his cock and the feeling of Steve hard and heavy against the small of his back.

The orgasm was unhurried and mind-erasing.He felt not-quite-present in its aftermath, as if he had somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up on a path of transcendence that wasn’t meant for him.At least until Steve eased him forward and slid two fingers inside him, finding that sweet spot without even trying, rocketing him back to his body.

And it was so good when he tortured that bundle of nerves, demanding that he stir again, full to aching, and then fuller still when Steve thrust inside him.He braced his hands against the wall and reveled in the rake of pleasure that came with each movement.Steve was letting him feel his length and the slide, pulling out almost all the way and then pressing home with agonizing patience.He would not be given the rough fuck he usually liked, not today, and that was fine because it was _so fucking good_ to feel him balls-deep, throbbing, savoring it.

He surrendered to sensation again, losing himself in the slow burn, feeling the rush of blood beneath skin and air past his lips as tried in vain to catch his breath.Steve was in no hurry, content to let the maddening pleasure build for both of them until it became unbearable.His lips and hands were everywhere, but what Bucky liked best was the feeling of his hot little panting breaths against his shoulders as he worked himself into bliss. 

Steve pulled away from him suddenly and before Bucky understood what was happening, Steve was down on his knees, lips around his cock, taking everything he had to offer as if he would never have the chance to suck cock ever again.His nerves lit all at once and Bucky came with a lightning-struck jerk of hips.Steve found himself gagged and Bucky saw him tremble, arch against his own hand.He pulled back and came with a gasp and a groan, his face pressed into the crease of Bucky’s thigh.

When they recovered he pulled Steve to his feet, held him as the somehow still hot water beat them into a sated lassitude.Then he washed Steve with long, lazy strokes of his hands, aware that the vaguely masculine scent of the soap was nowhere near as good as Steve’s natural smell.Steve returned the favor, pressing into the knots of muscle that always formed in his neck and shoulders until they released.

“We have to have as much sex as possible before January 20th,” Steve murmured.“Before they outlaw it again.”

“Would that stop us?”

“No.”His hand slid down to link fingers with Bucky.“I’m just afraid it won’t feel the same.”

“It will.I promise, it will.”But he knew Steve wasn’t talking about the physical part; he shouldn’t make promises that were outside his ability to keep.

Steve offered a fragile smile, and gave him a kiss so gentle that he felt foolish for ever having worried.

 

 

 

 

There were enough non-perishables in the pantry and basics in the refrigerator to cook a simple dinner, but they would have to venture out for groceries tomorrow.Bucky busied himself with _cacio e pepe_ as the sun set on a day that had broken many hearts _._

“Steve?It’s ready.”

There was no response, and he stepped out of the kitchen.Steve stood in front of the television in his favorite pair of expensive sweatpants.It quickly became apparent that he had crushed the glass he was holding; his right hand dripped a steady stream of crimson onto the pine floor.

He saw why a moment later.Someone had spray painted swastikas and hateful messages onto a storefront in Philadelphia.

“One day,” Steve said, dismay and despair blended in his voice.“It’s only been one fucking day.” 

So it began.

 

 

 

That was how Bucky came to spend the 78th anniversary of Kristallnacht tweezing pieces of glass out of Steve’s palm.Steve clenched his teeth so hard as he did it that it gave him a migraine.He was incapable of anything else for the rest of the night.For Bucky’s part, anger coiled in his belly and grew more venomous with every shard of glass, every cut cleaned and closed.He worried about Steve’s reaction to this, but now realized that he had underestimated his own.

If there was one bit of comfort to be found in all of it, it was that Steve was angry.Not sad, not defeated - _angry_.Oh, yes, Steven G. Rogers was furious, and sooner or later, someone would seriously regret pushing him to that point.But Steve wasn’t alone, not anymore.

_Cut off one head, two more shall take its place._

There were sixty-five million people waiting in line.

Bucky smiled a grim smile, and by the next day - Veteran’s Day, as if the world was not cruel enough - Steve’s anger had solidified into a brutal determination that Bucky knew well.He was going to start a fight, and he was going to win.

 

 

 

 

That night in bed Steve could not be satisfied.Nothing was enough to push him over the edge, so he teetered, unhinged, on the cusp of orgasm.Bucky found himself in a lather of hot sweat, teeth gritted, desperately trying _not_ to come as Steve bucked beneath him, demanding _more, god, fuck, harder, Bucky, harder._

He thought about the shower, about the way Steve had reacted when he accidentally choked him.He _liked_ it.Maybe, just maybe…

He reached up with his left hand, metal to Steve’s flushed skin.His head was tilted back, everything exposed, sternocleidomastoids and thyroid cartilage and curve of mandible - words he knew from learning how to kill people.The throat was so intimate and fragile, so easily crushed.It took exquisite control to apply just the right amount of pressure.

Steve’s eyes flew open as he tried to pull breath that would not come.Bucky leaned in to him, fucked him for all he was worth, their bodies coming together in sharp smacks.Steve lasted fifteen seconds.

He thrashed as he came, head pressed back into the mattress, mouth open in a cry that could not pass his lips.Strange, how much death and orgasm could resemble one another.That dark thought put him past the point of no return.He stiffened and spilled inside Steve, mind wiped clean of anything but hard-earned ecstasy.

He couldn’t stop staring at Steve in the aftermath.He was boneless, chest heaving as he slowly returned to the bedroom from whatever universe he’d visited.As Bucky watched a tear dripped from the outer corner of his eye and trailed toward his ear.When Steve reached up to swipe at it, his hand was shaking.

“That…that’s good, right?” Bucky asked, suddenly realizing that before closing the windpipe of one’s lover, one should probably inquire if it was acceptable behavior.He already knew the answer, but still, he should have asked.He leaned down to kiss the faint pink outline of his hand.

“Very good,” Steve said.The rumble of his voice was pleasant against Bucky’s lips.Those trembling hands traced soothingly up and down his back, as if to ease any worry that he’d misstepped.He began to feel the heaviness of both fatigue and satisfaction in his limbs.If Steve kept it up he was going to fall asleep. 

Steve shifted beneath him, separating their bodies but only far enough for Bucky to mold against his side.His fingers resettled in Bucky’s hair.Bucky felt himself succumbing and didn’t fight.He fell asleep right there, Steve’s heartbeat echoing in his ear.

 

 

 

 

Steve felt Bucky’s breathing slow and even out and knew that he was asleep.He deserved it; Steve didn't know why his body had refused to react like usual.Both of them had stamina and they could and sometimes did go for quite a while, but that…

That was mental.He was angry, and tonight it bled into their sex life.

He felt bad that Bucky had to work so hard to please him.He knew that Bucky would never stop trying now that he was allowed; that didn’t make it fair to expect heroics such as tonight’s when his mind wasn’t in the right place. 

If nothing else, he now understood why Bucky liked rough sex so much.It blurred the line of pain-pleasure, but the payoff was unreal. _Overstimulation_ didn’t even begin to cover it.

And now there was something else to try to understand, as if the state of the world and his sexuality weren’t confusing enough.It wasn’t supposed to feel good to be choked.But when that cool metal hand closed over his throat, it did.God help him, it did.The pleasure became monstrous in scale as his lungs burned and his mind screamed, and when he came he felt his heart stutter in his chest and tears well in his eyes.Until now he thought being brought to tears by great sex was romance novel fodder, but it was very real and entirely outside his control.Adrenaline on top of endorphins was a heady mixture, it seemed.

It was frightening, though, what Bucky would do to make him feel good.He didn’t seem to have any qualms in the moment, but Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere in his subconscious the act would disturb him.It wasn’t right to need that.No matter how good it felt, it wasn’t going to happen again.He would tell him in the morning that it was too dangerous.That way Bucky would never have to think about what it was like to press down on someone’s windpipe and not let go, at least not on Steve’s account.Where Bucky’s mind took him in moments of idleness or the unprotected landscape of sleep he could not help; but this, this he could control.

He turned his face into Bucky’s hair, suddenly conscious of the toll the night’s activities had taken on him.He was exhausted, a little sore, and a faint trace of yesterday’s headache still lingered behind his eyes.Maybe after a little sleep he would be able to figure out what he was supposed to do now.Maybe the world would make a little more sense.

_Not likely, Steve._

No, probably not. 

 

 

 

 

In the small hours of the night Bucky became restless in his sleep, twitching and groaning out half-words.Steve tried to wake him before the nightmare sunk its claws in but he was too late.It took an interminable, torturous two minutes to drag him back to reality, time in which Bucky fought and screamed at a foe he would never know.

When he opened his eyes and saw Steve, he started and pulled back as if he had been slapped, curling himself into a defensive posture against the headboard.Steve could only stare at him, at a complete loss for what to say or do.He was awake but Bucky wasn’t fully _with_ him yet.If he made the wrong move, one or both of them could end up hurt.

_Leave him alone,_ he’d shouted in the dream. _Don’t touch him_.Then something in Russian, which he’d bet had to do with compliance.He repeated that last thing at least six times, growing more and more distressed up until Steve finally woke him.Now his eyes were wide with fear and pain, his face chalky white.He was deathly still except for the slotted ribs that faced him; he breathed like a cornered animal.

Fight or flight.He was waiting for Steve to act to decide which.

The answer was to do nothing.So he settled onto his heels, hands visible, and waited.He had no idea how much time passed in that stalemate.Finally, Bucky’s voice issued.

“You’re Steve.”Flat.Dead.Just like the apartment in Romania.

No.No, they could not be starting over.His heart would not be able to take it.Steve nodded, ignoring the urgency of the emotions that wanted to rise in his chest.

“Where?”

He repeated what Bucky said in the car.“Great Smoky Mountains.Outside Gatlinburg, Tennessee.”There would be nothing familiar about it; they had not been here long enough, nor made enough positive associations for him to commit it to memory.

Bucky’s eyes jumped nervously around the room and he swallowed.“When?”

Oh, God.Sometimes he couldn’t name _where_ he was, but he had never seemed confused about _when_.

“November 2016.”A month which was rapidly climbing the list for worst of his life.

His eyes refocused on Steve, registering that he was naked with a hand-shaped bruise on his right hip and teeth marks on his chest and shoulders - things Steve had only noticed an hour ago when he got up to pee.To Bucky’s eyes, those marks were cause for alarm; he looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. 

“Did I…” his lip trembled, “did I rape you?”

If there was a question he had not expected, that was it.Steve felt cold all over, cold and disgusted and filled with an ancient, numbing sadness.Had they done that to him?Made him do that to others?Was forced murder not enough?

“No.Oh, Bucky, no,” he said, voice thick. 

Bucky’s body sagged with relief.He rested his head on the headboard for a moment, eyes closed.“But we…we did…”

“Yes.”

“I have a memory of something like that,” he murmured.“It was good.” 

“Yes, it was.”Steve nodded, and he couldn’t hold back anymore.The tears spilled over.He should have known it was too good to be true.The Bucky of the last few weeks was gone, retreated into the shell of the Winter Soldier.The man he loved…

The pain was too much.Something inside him broke, and it must have shown, because the bed shifted and Bucky was close, face torn with guilt.He didn’t understand the intensity of Steve’s emotions, but he did know that Steve meant something to him, and that he did not want to be the cause of such anguish.

“I know I did something bad.I’m sorry.I’m so sorry.I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“You do,” Steve said through his teeth, hating the resignation in Bucky’s words as much as he hated the people who hurt him.The next words ripped out of him, a lamentation.“You read and you cook and you make friends even when you don’t mean to and you plan missions and you make me so happy I could scream.”

Bucky’s blue eyes were wide, surprised.He took a shuddering breath and now his eyes were glassy too, and he wound his fingers into his hair and pulled - pure frustration. 

“I don’t remember. _I_ _can’t remember_.” 

“Try,” Steve said, not caring if it was selfish.“Please try.”

 

 

 

He wasn’t stupid.He knew that when two people woke up naked in a bed together, they had probably had sex.His thighs were sore, but nothing else, and the man he knew as Steve was bruised, docile, deer-in-headlights where he knelt on the bed.For one terrible moment he thought he must have done something Steve didn’t want.He thought that was the cause of the pain in his eyes, the tears.

But then he said those _things._

_You make me so happy I could scream._

And now he was asking him to try to remember.

It was the least anyone had ever asked of him.The most benign task.No targets, no killing, no blood.There might be pain, but it would only hurt him.No one else.

“Help me,” he said.

Steve nodded.He wiped his tears and tried to set his jaw but he couldn’t, because his lower lip kept quivering.He didn’t _know_ Steve, but there were things in his head that were familiar, if they could be trusted.This, he thought, was real.The Steve that existed in his mind was so fucking _brave,_ as if all the cowardice in the world existed so that he might have the lion’s share of courage _._

Bucky felt an undeniable urge to kiss him, gut-deep and instinctual, and he gave in.If a person could melt, Steve did, losing what strength he had in his spine, and he tasted like salt - and there were images, sounds, sensations - 

… _sun still rises in the east, I checked…_

The world shifted and clicked into place, like the plates in his arm.

 

 

 

 

“Steve?” 

He opened his eyes and knew right away that Bucky was back.He was leaning over him, eyes concerned.Steve was so emotionally spent that all he could manage was a nod.

“What happened?Why are you crying?”He touched his own cheek and his hand came away wet.“Why am _I_ crying?”Fear bloomed on his face.“What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Steve said reflexively, wanting to comfort him.They _were_ the same person, that Bucky and this one, just on different points in a timeline.There was a small comfort in that, but his heart still throbbed with the terror of losing him.

“Stop lying,” Bucky commanded.“You look like someone died.”

_Oh, but someone did._

“You had a nightmare,” Steve confessed.“I woke you up and you were gone.”

“What?”

“You were gone.Didn’t remember anything.It was like the last year never happened.Like we were back in the apartment in Bucharest.”

Bucky sat back on the bed, silent, processing.His face had gone pale again, but not like earlier.Not like a man awakening naked in bed with a near stranger and not knowing what had transpired.Steve knew he should just leave it alone, not bring up thoughts of _before_ given what he’d just witnessed, but he had to know.

“You thought that you raped me.Did they make you do that?”

_Please, please tell me they didn’t._

It wasn’t better or worse than murder but a part of him knew Bucky would hate it more.He would loathe the idea of victimizing someone like that in the first place, and he would loathe leaving them alive afterwards even more.At least there was finality in death.A dead person did not have to live on thinking about how they died.Unless, of course, ghosts were real.

Bucky shook his head with certainty.“No.They had other people to send those kinds of messages.”His shoulders hunched and he fought off a chill, as if someone had dragged ice across his spine.“People who enjoyed it.” 

Steve hadn’t the strength to ask any more questions.He laid there staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what this meant for them. 

“I don’t remember dreaming,” Bucky said at last.“I don’t remember anything between falling asleep earlier and just now.And I don't want to.”He gathered the blankets and laid down next to Steve, resting his head on his chest.“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Steve just breathed.Then he said it, because now he knew how precarious things were.Now he understood that it could all be lost in the blink of an eye.

“I love you.”

Bucky’s arms threaded around him and squeezed until his ribs hurt.

“I’ve loved you since 1934.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That song with the menacing bass line (that you probably don't even remember from the beginning of the chapter) is Hey Man Nice Shot by Filter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky try to process The Incident and find a way forward.

When the sun rose, Steve couldn't slide into his sneakers or get out the door fast enough.He hadn’t gone running in a week and after last night he felt like he was going to explode.He was still a little sore from the sex and the emotional wreckage, but it was nothing that would stop him. 

Cold, clean mountain air hit him and he took off without stretching.He didn’t care for the solitude of a place like this, but the air was good and there were things to look at, leaves crunching beneath his feet, hills and valleys and rocks and streams and at last his brain went blank.

_thumpthumpbreathethumpthumpbreathethumpthumpbreathe_

The world was simple again, if only for a little while.

 

 

 

 

Bucky languished in bed, enjoying the pocket of warmth Steve left behind.It was cold here in the mountains.He had not thought to buy sleepwear at the thrift store in Detroit so the only defense was the pile of blankets.Perhaps he would have to get some fancy sweatpants like Steve.

At last he gathered his willpower and got up, cursing at the rush of cold air as he struggled into jeans and a frayed sweater and two pairs of socks.Still he shivered until the coffee brewed and he drank a cup black right there at the counter.It was good, this Gevalia - worth a second cup.

He was desperate to occupy his mind.Somehow he slept again last night, but maybe it wasn’t so strange, because during the war they had always managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep curled together while the world toiled on in its attempt to destroy itself.Steve slept, too, probably out of sheer exhaustion.Now they were both awake, both unsettled.The run would calm Steve.Usually cooking took the place of running for Bucky but there wasn’t anything left in the pantry or refrigerator to work with.Today they had to find a market lest they starve.

So he went to the bookshelf.He had given upon Game of Thrones; by the third book there were so many characters that he couldn’t keep them straight.He spent so much time paging back, trying to remember who was who and why they were important, that he couldn’t move forward in the story.He had used hand written charts or notes for a complicated book before, but had trouble summoning the effort when Steve was around to distract him. 

Unfortunately, he had read most of what was on the bookshelf here.There was no help to be found.The next hope was the television.

He flicked it on; it was still on a news channel, where they had left it Wednesday night.He braced himself for non-stop coverage of the President-Elect, but surprisingly, that wasn’t who filled the sixty inch screen.Tony Stark stared out at him, mid-interview.

From the broadcast he gleaned that Stark had sent legal representation for every single one of the seventeen people that were arrested by the FBI for assisting Steve in his quest to vote and subsequent escape.All seventeen were out on bail.Stark was cocky as hell but he was probably right that not one of them would go to trial - not with his money and his legal team behind them. 

“Mr. Stark, do you support Captain America’s recent activities?”

“You mean do I support voting?Absolutely, yes, and let’s be real, the guy would probably explode if he didn’t do his civic duty.” 

“Who do you think he voted for?”

Stark couldn’t control his face and Bucky bit down a laugh.If circumstances were different, he and Tony would most definitely get along.

“Are you serious?You’re asking me who Captain America voted for?You do know his first job was punching out Adolf Hitler in a vaudeville show, right?”

The reporter stared at him blankly.

“You know what, Alicia, why don’t you ask him?I’m sure he has lots to say on the subject.”

“Do you know where he is?” 

“No.I have no idea where Captain America is, but I can tell you he was in D.C. earlier this week.”

Oh, the snark.It was irritating when it was directed at you ( _Manchurian Candidate)_ , but on point and cruelly hilarious when someone else was the target.

“Mr. Stark, some people think that you providing lawyers for those who aided Captain America means that you were in on it.”

“I wasn’t.We haven’t spoken in a year.But those people in D.C., they were right.Do you hear that, kids?They were right.We don’t get to hide behind his shield when things are bad and then point the finger at him when we manage to go a week without aliens invading or crazy people trying to kill a few million of us.He’s not the reason things are the way they are.He’s the reason things aren’t worse.I’ve fought with the guy long enough to know that he’d bleed every last drop of blood in his body for this country - this _world_ \- and consider it an honor.This is how we repay him?By calling him a traitor?We should be ashamed of ourselves.”

Stark nudged his dark glasses up his nose.Then he pushed the microphone out of his face with the back of his hand and walked away, head down.A throng of reporters followed him, but he was practiced at ignoring them; he lowered himself into an expensive car and drove off. 

Well.That ought to cheer Steve up a little. 

 

 

 

Bucky had found the On Demand feature of the television and was engrossed in Game of Thrones when Steve got back.Steve’s mood had greatly stabilized as a result of the two hour run; he felt a little bit like himself instead of a pumpkin with its head cut open and guts scooped out.He gulped a glass of water and then lukewarm coffee.

Bucky looked over when his stomach made a sound like a big cat growling.

“I was waiting for that,” he said.“There’s no food.We have to get something to eat and then go shopping.” 

“Okay.Just let me change my shirt.”

“Wait.Before you go…”Bucky pointed the remote at the TV and paused the episode.Then he hit few more buttons, which returned it to live television.“There’s something you need to see.They should replay it in a minute.”

Steve splashed some cold water on his face while he waited.He was drying off with a dish towel when it came on.

“Here.Watch this,” Bucky said, and turned up the volume.

“Seventeen people?They arrested all of them?” Steve said after a moment, aghast. 

“Steve, watch the rest, for God’s sake.”

Tony.Tony sent lawyers for every single one.He wasn’t fooled; he saw Pepper in the move, but it was still Tony’s money and manpower, and he had to approve it.All right, so he did a good thing.But did it come from the heart, or from the guilt-ridden PR agent that inhabited his brain after Sokovia?

Strange.As he talked, openly mocking the clueless reporter, Steve realized that he almost missed Tony.There weren’t many people in the world who could be so arrogant and so well-liked at the same time.He was a peculiar breed.

“… _those people in D.C., they were right.Do you hear that, kids?They were right.We don’t get to hide behind his shield when things are bad and then point the finger at him when we manage to go a week without aliens invading or crazy people trying to kill a few million of us.”_

Amen to that.He watched the rest of the interview, ending in Tony’s hasty retreat, and leaned back against the counter.There was no PR in evidence.Tony spoke from the heart.

“What do you think?” Bucky asked.

“I think it’s a start.”

 

 

 

 

He went into the bedroom to change his shirt, mind whirling around the conundrum of Tony Stark.It was clearly an overture of peace.But peace with Steve wasn’t enough; to truly reconcile, Tony had to accept Bucky.And he had to apologize for trying to kill him. 

He knew Tony.It would take a long time before he understood that he had hurt Steve the same way Bucky (and by proxy, Steve) hurt him - by harming a loved one.Steve never intended to keep anything from Tony.He knew that Hydra had orchestrated the death of Howard and Maria, but had not realized until much later that it was Bucky, specifically, who carried it out.He foolishly thought it would never come up, or if it did, he could paint it in the broad strokes of Hydra.

That wasn’t how it played out, of course.He understood what it looked and felt like from Tony’s perspective - that he had known what Bucky did and chose him over everyone.But that was the thing; that man on the surveillance tape, the one who casually and methodically killed Howard and Maria without an ounce of human feeling, wasn’t Bucky.He had seen Bucky kill people.It was never that easy. 

_We aren’t soldiers!_

Tony wasn’t, and that was the problem.He didn’t know what it was like to kill a person simply for being on the other team.To try to sleep knowing that the corpses they stepped over might have had wives, children, mothers waiting for them, and that they were _all_ cogs in a big machine that pitted men against one another in a never-ending cycle of insanity.

Tony had no idea how many people both he and Bucky had killed as free men.No concept of the strange, shattered intimacy that created.He knew Bucky’s mannerisms when he had to take a life, the taut expression on his face, the unnatural silence hours later when he thought he was alone.He knew, also, that on many occasions where a bullet would have been better spent in a skull, Bucky put it in a shoulder or a leg. 

The Winter Soldier wore Bucky’s face, but that was it; Hydra had done its job of eliminating all else that remained.The Soldier and Bucky were separate creatures forced to exist in the same body.Until Tony understood that, there would be no reconciliation.

Steve dug into the bottom of his backpack for a shirt and his hand brushed something smooth.Frowning, he pulled out two interoffice envelopes.One was labeled “S. Rogers” and the other “J. Barnes”.He had forgotten about Delia’s comment about reading material until now; this must be what she meant.

He sat down on the bed with the envelope that bore his name. He unwound the string that held it closed and pulled out a stack of papers.Some were typed, some handwritten.Letters.

Delia’s was on top, handwritten on hospital stationary.

 

_Captain Rogers,_

 

_My grandmother had a lot to say about you and Sergeant Barnes.What stuck with me was the fact that when you encountered one another, you were all so young.She reminded me that you are young still - younger than me, in years lived awake - but so well acquainted with the cruelties of the world in a way that I have never had to be.Many of us have lived free of that burden because of the sacrifices of men like you._

_I hope the letters in here can begin to put your mind at ease.Remember that this is only a fraction of the gratitude in the world.There will always be someone out there trying to drag you down, and sometimes the angry voices seem louder.But the glad ones are more numerous, and when they all come together, they cannot be stopped._

_You will always have our support.You will not want for anything.There is not enough in the world to repay you, and we will see you restored._

 

_Delia_

 

 

 

Bucky found him sitting there, stack of papers in hand, breathing through emotion.Steve handed him Delia’s letter and he read it.He knew that Delia was a rare person, smart and good and insightful, but he had underestimated how much.Contacting her was one of the best decisions he ever made.

Then he noticed the second envelope on the bed.It had his name on it. 

“Go on,” Steve said.

He picked up the envelope, felt its heft.He had not expected this.Like Steve’s packet, the top letter was from Delia, and they read it together.

 

_James,_

 

_I know you won’t like it, but I took the liberty of asking the survivors to write a little something to you and Captain Rogers.We all felt that you, especially, needed to know that you are as much a hero as Captain America, maybe more so, because when you went to war you were a regular man.The things Hydra did to and through you do not reflect who you really are.We know, and we will speak of it to anyone who will listen…and those who will not, until the world remembers._

 

_Delia_

 

“See?” Steve said.“It’s not all for me.It never was.” 

 

 

 

What no one understood, Steve reflected during the car ride into town, was that he wouldn’t be _him_ without Bucky.Captain America was as much Bucky Barnes as he was Steve Rogers.Since coming out of the ice he had only been half of himself.They were always better together.Always.

They ate eggs and pancakes in town.Walked around afterwards, hats and sunglasses offering a little anonymity.Dared to join hands when they realized that there were rainbow flags around and other couples openly showing affection.For a little while, they were normal.

 

 

 

 

“Hello, stranger.”

“Hi, Nat.”

“Nice little show you put on in D.C.”

“Would’ve been easier if it was a show, but I never could fake cry,” Steve murmured.

“I can teach you.It’s useful in the repertoire, it makes people very uncomfortable.”

“Like public displays of affection?”

“Yeah, kinda like that.”He could hear the smile in her voice.“How are you?”

“Good, I think.”He tilted his head back to catch some sun; there was some warmth behind it now that it was midday.He had parked himself on a bench outside the supermarket, mostly because he hated food shopping, but also because he needed a minute alone to make this phone call.“How are you?”

“I’m fine.Playing auntie at Clint’s for a few days while he and Laura have a romantic weekend.”

“That’s really nice of you.”

“It’s fun, you should babysit one day.All we do is eat microwave food and watch movies and build forts and shoot Nerf guns at each other.”

He smiled, picturing Natasha behind a pile of couch cushions, ducking foam projectiles and firing back, missing on purpose.Those kids loved her, and he knew that she loved them.

“Sounds like a good time.”

“It is.”Her voice grew more serious.“You and James doing okay, post-election?”

“Limping along.”

There was a pause.Then, “That’s it?” 

“It has to be, for now.Until I figure out the best way to fight this.”

“That’s more like it.Did you see Tony’s interview?”

Of course she would bring it up.From the beginning, it was clear that she wanted them to be friends again.She had even volunteered to tell Tony that she knew about his parents, too - which she did, she was there when Steve learned of it and no doubt put the pieces together long before him - but Tony didn’t need _two_ friends who lied by omission.

“I did see it,” Steve said, neutral. 

“You realize he’s trying to apologize, right?”

“Or Pepper is making him.”

“Steve.”

He sighed.“I know, I know.It’s a nice gesture, and it was good to hear him say those things.But I’m not the problem and we both know it.Bucky and I are sort of a package deal.Speaking of which, I have to ask you something.I’m gonna butcher it, but he said something in Russian in his sleep the other night and I need to know what it means.” 

“Do your worst,” she replied.

He repeated what he remembered haltingly, tripping over the unfamiliar sounds.She corrected him once, and then, after a moment of thought, said exactly what Bucky had said.

“Yes.That’s it, that’s what he said.”

“I’ll do anything you want.” 

“That’s what it means?”

“More or less.”

Steve breathed and rubbed his eyes underneath his sunglasses.Just like he thought - compliance.

“Is he having nightmares?” Natasha asked.

“Not really, but last night…it was a whopper.”

“He has a lot of material to pull from,” she said.“Is he all right?”

He decided not to lie to her.“I don’t know.”

“Are _you_ all right?”

“No.”

“Are you going to be all right eventually?”

“I hope so.”Steve sat up taller on the bench; Bucky was making his way out of the supermarket, a few brown bags in tow.“Nat, I have to go.”

“Okay.Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.Thank you.Say hi to Clint for me.”

“Bye, babe.”She hung up, and he was lonelier for it. 

 

 

 

When they got back to the house, he ducked outside for a cigarette.Bucky had replenished the stash while they were out and it was long overdue.For a few minutes he just enjoyed the smoke and the view.This really was a beautiful place.

Then he stubbed the cigarette out in the lone ashtray he found, an ancient ceramic thing from a Lake Tahoe souvenir shop.He knew Steve begged off shopping earlier so he could make a phone call.The secrecy didn’t bother him.More likely than not he was calling Sam or Natasha.

Besides, he had to make a call of his own.He’d avoided it long enough.After last night he couldn’t deny the suspicion that had begun to grow in his mind early on in Detroit.He dialed T’Challa.

He didn’t pick up.Understandable - he was a king, after all, and very busy - so Bucky left a message.

“It’s Barnes.Call me back when you get this.”Then, as an afterthought, “Sorry I ignored you for three weeks.”

He lit another cigarette.He’d give it five minutes.If T’Challa didn’t get back to him, he’d try again later.

After two minutes the phone began to vibrate against the wooden railing.Bucky grabbed it before it vibrated itself right over the edge.

“Hello.”

“James.Are you well?”

“Not in any immediate danger.”

T’Challa spoke to someone other than him in a hushed voice.He was obviously in the middle of something.

“I can call back,” Bucky said.

“No.No, this can wait.”He said something in Wakandan, and then he heard the click of nice shoes on a floor.“Now I can talk.” 

Bucky took a long drag of the cigarette, let the nicotine fortify him.“I’ve made some progress on the last trigger.”

“Oh?You remember?”There was hope in his voice, and a little excitement.

“Not entirely, but…”

“But…?”

“It has something to do with Steve.”

T’Challa was quiet.It was not what he expected to hear.The line crackled, strained by distance, but the other man’s breathing was clear.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

T’Challa sighed.“That is unfortunate.”

Bucky felt an insane urge to laugh.“And the whole damn thing isn’t?”

“Why do you suspect it’s related to Steve?”

“I don’t suspect, I know.It’s complicated and I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

“Tell me your location and I’ll be there.”

“No, not yet.I have to take care of some things.”He tamped out the second cigarette, thinking.“You know Thanksgiving?”

“The American holiday?”

“Yeah.Got plans?”

“I don’t know when that is.”

“Twelve days from now.”

“I’m sure I have ‘got plans’, in your words, but it is a king’s prerogative to reschedule.”

He smiled.T’Challa sometimes said things like that in jest; he was the best kind of king, the one to whom royalty did not matter much beyond his ability to guide and protect his people.

“Come for Thanksgiving.Bring anyone you think Steve would be happy to see.We’ve got room.”Bucky nodded to himself.Yes, that would make Steve happy and give him a chance to come clean about what they had really been doing the last few months in Wakanda.“I’ll send you our coordinates the night before.”

“Consider it done.”

The connection crackled again as Bucky chewed a thumbnail.“I really am sorry I ignored your calls.”

“No, you’re not,”T’Challa laughed.“It’s all right, James.You were living.”

 

 

 

He left Steve alone that night.He was reading the letters.More than once he had to pause to wipe away tears, but he also laughed sometimes.When Bucky went to retrieve a little insurance that tonight he might not wake up a screaming amnesiac, he offered the joint to Steve.Surprisingly, he waved him off.

Bucky lit up outside.He wasn’t ready to read his letters yet, so here he was, reclined on the wooden frame of a lounge chair looking up at the stars.As per usual, Steve was on his mind.

Today was nice, but something was different.Steve was uncharacteristically level the last few days.He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t sad.Angry, frustrated, disbelieving - those were all better than sad, when it came to Steve Rogers.But after last night…

The sadness crept back in.It wasn’t for himself or the state of things like it was before.Now it was for Bucky.Not pity; Steve had learned his lesson with that.But whatever he had seen in those minutes Bucky regressed had set the weights back on his shoulders.

Bucky wasn’t going to wait for them to pull Steve back down, nor was he going to let Steve pull himself away.If anyone was going to be sad about him, it would be him, damn it.Lord knew he had fought some demons those two years on the road, but Bucky didn’t think he got sad the way Steve did.He got angry.He got scared.He got sick with self-loathing.He thought about eating a bullet just to stop the endless merry-go-round in his brain, the one he could not dismount because it spun too fast and the ground was on fire.But he didn’t get sad; it was too passive a thing for the force of his destruction. 

Perhaps Steve had always been melancholy and he just didn’t know how to pay attention.Or maybe he was paying attention to other things, fool that he was.Probably that.

He exhaled and put out the stub of the joint.This was better than what he bought in Detroit.He felt calm and light and effortless, and that was something.Apparently even the dealers of the world liked Captain America.It probably tickled them that he partook. 

All the better for both of them.He bought a lot from that guy in D.C. (who knew exactly who he was selling to), and even though he didn’t remember names or places easily, he did remember faces.He could find him again with enough time and willpower.

In the meantime, he was going to go make Steve smoke, and then give him the rest of the night to try to get himself together. 

 

 

 

Steve turned down the weed a second time and regretted it.He lurched awake less than an hour after falling asleep, drenched in sweat, swinging so hard at the echoes of dream-foes that he would have fallen out of bed if Bucky didn’t catch him.

The sheets were tangled around his legs and Steve struggled free with a panicked noise.Bucky got him a wet cloth and he sat with it on his head, gasping for breath.Next to him Bucky was preternaturally calm, his pupils wide, still as a cat on the hunt.He said the weed from D.C. was better and now Steve believed him.He should have listened.

Bucky didn’t have to say anything.He just had to sit there, chin on his knee, waiting.Once Steve caught his breath he talked.

“After you shot Fury, Pierce called me in.Wanted to know why Nick came to see me at my apartment.I didn’t know what was going on and I sure as hell didn’t trust him.I told him I didn’t know anything.It wasn’t the answer he wanted.”

A muscle in Bucky’s cheek jumped.It was the only thing that betrayed his knowledge of just how dangerous it was to be on the wrong side of Alexander Pierce.

“I left, and while I was riding the elevator down, people kept getting on.Two or three on each floor, until there were a dozen of them.I knew what was about to happen.”

“They tried to kill you?”

Oh, if only it was that _simple_.It was frightening enough to fight off so many men in a tiny space, and they were men he knew, men he’d fought beside, even trusted.Brothers.And when the mag cuffs came out, he knew how far the betrayal went.He knew how he’d been played.

“Worse,” Steve whispered.“They tried to take me alive.” 

 

 

 

He held Steve, rolled him a joint, watched him smoke it without any prompting.Held him again until he fell asleep.Then he got up and walked to the kitchen, very aware of the air entering and leaving his body, the cold wood beneath his feet.Bucky sat down on that cold wood, back against the stove, and reached for the dish towel.

He knew what they would have done to Steve if they managed to capture him in that elevator.He knew exactly.He brought his knees to his chest and tried to stay in control.

The last trigger definitely had something to do with Steve.Twice now, the thought of Steve becoming like him had summoned disproportionate anxiety.The only reason he wasn’t blacking out like he had in Detroit was because he smoked earlier.He was chemically altered enough to offset the crippling fear that came over him…for now.

The outlier was last night.He didn’t remember the nightmare, but if it was about Steve being tortured, reprogrammed like Bucky, it would make sense.Even if that was the answer, why had he forgotten?In Detroit, he woke up and he was still himself.Right now he was upset but the world was solid and sensible.What was it about that dream that deranged him?

Something else nagged at him, too.He had known early on that Steve was dead; they thought that it would break him, and it did, a little bit.Why would any trigger revolve around him?They couldn’t reprogram someone who was dead.

His mind drifted back to the bookshelf, the spines of the books he’d browsed this morning.The Hunger Games books were up there.Not what he’d qualify as vacation reading.He read them somewhere on the road and they made him angry; there was so much manipulation in those stories.Most of it was less overt than the hijacking done to Peeta after being captured, but that was what he thought of now. 

Maybe they had hijacked _him_ , turned Steve into someone awful in his brain.Someone like those cruel men and women who hurt him so badly that he could not hold on to who he was when he was reminded of it.But why?Why someone who was gone?What power did a dead man have? 

Quite a lot, Bucky supposed, if history was anything to go by.But if he’d been programmed to think of Steve as a monster, dead or alive, why _this?_ How could he have that in his mind and simultaneously love him so much that it felt scorched into his DNA? 

It made no sense and he hated having only bits and pieces to work with.But that was his brain, and that was his reality.So he breathed and bit down on the towel to keep from screaming, until exhaustion claimed him.

 

 

 

When he woke, he was on the couch.He was bundled in blankets and it was so warm and comfortable that the thought of moving did not bear consideration.Obviously Steve had found him curled against the stove when he got up to run.He must have been tired if being lifted over to the couch didn’t wake him.

Steve was humming to himself in the kitchen.If his nose didn’t deceive him, Steve was actually cooking.He could throw together the basics with the best of them; it was just rare that he wanted to.

Bucky drowsed until Steve was finished.He came over to the couch and sat on the edge of the cushion, light fingers brushing some of Bucky’s hair away from his face.

“Breakfast.”

“Mm.” 

“C’mon, it’ll barely be any good hot and definitely not if you let it get cold.”

Bucky snaked his arms around Steve’s waist, intent clear.“There are microwaves in this modern world.”

“Buck, I just ran and I smell and I’m so hungry that I won’t make it through whatever you’re thinking about right now.”

“That’s a shame.”His hand strayed between Steve’s thighs, grasping him through the shorts.Normally that was enough to elicit a response, but not today.

“No means no,” Steve said, and his voice was light and joking, but Bucky saw through it.

“All right,” he relented.“But you would have liked what I was thinking about.”

“I’m sure.”For all that he seemed not to want the amorous attention, Steve stayed where he was.Bucky sat up and embraced him from behind.

“For the record, you smell good.”

“For the record, you’re brain damaged.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not enough to think you smell good after sweating like a whore in church all morning.”

Bucky smiled into his shoulder blade.He slid his hands beneath Steve’s shirt; he couldn’t help it.He _did_ smell good, no matter what he said, and it stirred something in Bucky.The only time he got to smell this musk of exertion was during and after sex.That was why he couldn’t stop thinking about getting him out of his running gear and onto his back.

“What is with you this morning?”

“You smell good,” he repeated.

“You need a doctor.”

“Got lots of ‘em.”He laid a kiss on the back of Steve’s neck, where the vertebra stuck out.“Can’t stop unless you get up.”

“More like _won’t_.”

“You’re still sitting here.”He could feel Steve’s heart rate pick up beneath his fingers and knew that his body betrayed whatever reluctance his mind put forth.

In the end, his stomach saved him.As Bucky prepared to move in for the kill, it growled loud enough to echo.Bucky had mercy on him; he had gone through the effort to make breakfast, after all.He ought to be able to eat it.They had all day for other things.

 

 

 

Except that whenever he tried to initiate, Steve was evasive.He was too full, too tired - which might have been convincing had he not gone for a _second run_ \- too distracted, and it became clear that it was avoidance.Bucky got the message and backed off, thinking maybe Steve was more deeply impacted by last night’s dream than he could understand.

He tried to occupy himself.Steve suggested he read his letters.It was silly to put it off, and he couldn’t say why the task seemed so daunting when compared to everything else in his life.Perhaps it was one thing to experience emotions as they came (something with which he struggled mightily), and another thing to purposely subject yourself to a known emotional pitfall.That envelope was a rosebush, beautiful but full of thorns.

And yet, supposedly he was brave, so while Steve was out on his second run he opened the envelope.The top letter was from a Leah Gershmann, born 1 December 1924.Soon to be 92 years old.

 

_Sgt Barnes,_

 

_I do not like to think back to our meeting.I’m certain that you don’t, either.But I remember it very clearly.When the train stopped I thought they would pull us out of the car and shoot us on the spot, or make us march on foot so that we would all die before ever reaching the camp.I thought perhaps I had already died when the doors opened and I saw seven mismatched men, none of whom wore an SS uniform._

_It was Captain Rogers who pulled the doors back, but it was you that stepped forward and took my son Eli from my arms.He clung to you - the first warm person he’d encountered in over a year.You let him hold on to you like a cub even though he was crawling with lice and stinking of piss and typhoid.You even buttoned him into your jacket - that was how thin the both of you were.I will never forget that._

_You were the only one that could move at first.You helped me down, and then held up your arms for the next person, Eli still clinging to you, and the next person, until the rest of your men could emerge from their shock.They followed your example until we were all out.Then they looked to you, not Captain Rogers, to tell them what to do._

_He’s gotten the adulation and the glory, if you can call it that, but I know who the real leader was.It was the man who sat with Eli and painstakingly combed the nits out of his hair.I remember the sizzle as you threw them into the fire._

 

God, so did he.The boy was not long for the world and he couldn’t stand the thought of him dying so dirty and dehumanized.If he was going to go, he would do it as a person - warm, loved, tended to.

 

_It was the man who took off his second pair of socks and put them on my feet.The man who, when asked by his team how many rations they would leave for us, only had to give them a look to let them know it would be everything.The man who put guns in our hands and taught us how to shoot even though we could not win in a skirmish.The man who, it was whispered, took one of the soldiers from the train away from camp that night and threatened to pull out his teeth one by one with pliers unless he confessed the sins of the Third Reich.The man who sent a recording of that confession home addressed to the President of the United States._  

 

He had not just _threatened_ to pull teeth.He yanked out one of each soldier’s, a small total since there were only six on the train; Dugan had the honor of holding them still with a combination of muscle and steel, Dernier the honor of looking the other way as each man disappeared from where they held them.That kind of thing wasn’t for Steve and they all knew it.It was one of the only times he let his rage from his imprisonment and torture guide his decisions, and still it was much less than most of those men deserved. 

He left the teeth and the soldiers, stripped of everything except their underclothes, inside the empty train.No doubt it took them a few days to figure out that they could escape the car; it locked from the outside but they had not actually activated the lock.Steve wasn’t one for needless brutality, but he had no objection to letting them feel, just for a few days, the same way as their prisoners.As for the recording…it was in his pocket when he fell in the Alps.It never made it to the President.

 

_It probably won’t surprise you that Eli died three days after we parted ways.He couldn’t fight anymore.Strange as it was, I felt a kind of relief.His short life was so full of pain and sorrow, and though we were free, the outcome of the war was still very much in question.We buried him in the woods, in his own grave instead of a death pit, and spent a bullet to mark it.One of millions of bullets in the breast of Europe and the world._

_I am overcome with sadness when I think of what they have done to you.I always come back to that memory of you by the fire with Eli.You knew his fate, I think, and that the only medicine was simple kindness and comfort.You are a nurturer.It was hard enough for you to be there, killing instead of healing; I can only imagine the pain of such a soul being weaponized.Like Eli, I wish that you had never had to live through it all._

_But you have, and I pray that there is someone there to hold you, and button you into their jacket, and comb the nits out of your hair.I pray also that you have the strength to live on, so that you might understand that for every ounce of ugliness in the world, there is twice as much beauty.You just need the will to see it._

_May you know only blessings now, until your days are done._

 

_Leah_

 

Oh, it was a rosebush, all right, and he bled.

 

 

 

 

The weather was unseasonably warm and he was sweating again.He was running in part to escape Bucky’s at times very demanding libido, but also because he needed to think about _why_ he was trying to escape said libido.His body needed no convincing; it was his mind that balked. 

They’d been sleeping together for nearly a month without issue (how was it only a _month_?).He loved Bucky and he loved sex and it followed that he loved sex with Bucky in every form they’d explored thus far.So why did he feel a sense of panic this morning?He was relaxed after his run, mind clearer than it had been in a few days, body energized from a brisk morning spent outside.In Detroit he would have let that food go cold many times over.

He was waiting for the familiar voice to chime in.Strangely, it seemed reluctant, or perhaps out of practice; it had not held the same sway over him lately.But it was there.Steve knew it was there.

As he ran along a creek bed his sneaker slipped on a rock slimy with algae.His left foot plunged into the creek and he fell forward, his right knee clapping against another rock.The shock of the cold water and the impact pushed everything away in favor of a surprising pain; he had taken punches that hurt less.When he came to his senses he turned and sat, waiting for the vibrations to fade from his right knee even as he felt the warm tickle of blood tracking down his shin. 

It looked worse than it was.The wet left foot would be more annoying on the way home.He took off the sneaker and wrung out his sock.Everything now was made to dry fast; if he found a patch of sunlight he might be on his way a little better off than if he started back now.So he picked his way up the creek bank, to where the grass took over, and set his shoe and sock on a dark, dry rock already warm from afternoon sun.

The blood had dried in a long drip down his shin, ending in the top of his sock.A half-inch cut on his kneecap was working on closing itself with a sticky crimson clot.His body didn’t require much tending to fix itself, most of the time; if only the same could be said of his mind.

_You can’t just pretend like everything is okay after the other night._

There. 

_You were stupid enough to think that it could be that easy._

Well, that was a fact.But there were times in life that _something_ had to be easy whether it really was or not.He leaned back in the dry grass, feeling its sharp prickles through his shirt.

_You aren’t upset enough.HE isn’t upset enough._

Compared to what, exactly?Was there a script for this?He’d been pretty goddamn upset that night and in some ways he still felt raw.He supposed that there was so much to be upset about in Bucky’s life that he had to pick and choose what he allowed himself to agonize over. How else could he maintain any semblance of sanity? 

He came back.That was what mattered.He came back.

_It was you.If you hadn’t needed THAT he wouldn’t have gone in the first place._

Ah.His old familiar friend, self-blame.It had drifted through his mind a few times - how could it not? - and he was ready for this one.He had not asked for it; Bucky just did it.He took an educated guess as to what might _get him there,_ so to speak, and succeeded in spectacular fashion.Was it strange and a bit daunting to admit that maybe his proclivities ran a little darker than expected?Yes, but how long had he waited for this?How long had they _both_ waited? 

And besides, in today’s world, weren’t there best-selling books and shitty movies out about BDSM that good Christian housewives eagerly devoured?What was he even worried about?Bucky, obviously, but that was separate.Maybe choking Steve, even for pleasure, had added fuel to his nightmare, but it was foolish and presumptuous to assume it was the sole contributor. 

There were things in his brain that Steve couldn’t begin to comprehend.It was probably miraculous that this hadn’t happened earlier.It would probably happen again, no matter what they did or did not do to each other in bed.Could he really sit around and lament _his_ loss when Bucky’s was so much greater?Was he going to fall to pieces, or was he going to gear the fuck up and help Bucky find his way?

“Choice B,” he said out loud.Steve sat up and checked on his shoe and sock; another ten minutes ought to do it.Until then he would continue to enjoy the sun and sort out his thoughts.

This was…different.Usually when that voice spoke up he had nothing to say in return.Today he felt strong enough to rebut the ugly words.Or maybe _strong_ was the wrong word; maybe he was just…

Galvanized.

Yes.The whole week had been terrible, anxiety-inducing, bittersweet, and _galvanizing._

There were so many things he wanted to do that he didn’t know where or how to start.It was an odd sort of paralysis.Well, no more.It was time.First he was going to go home and tend to Bucky.Then…

He had a hell of a list to make.

 

 

 

Bucky was subdued when he got back, on the couch watching but not really watching something.At least he was until he saw the blood on Steve’s leg.He shot to his feet, his entire demeanor changed to high alert.

“Steve, did somebody—”

“No.I was being stupid and not paying attention and I fell.I’m fine.”

Bucky took his hands and turned them over.Both of his palms, only just barely healed from _Kristallnacht_ , were scraped up, with bits of sand and grime embedded.He hadn’t even noticed.

“Need to wash these out so they don’t get infected,” Bucky said, pulling him toward the kitchen sink.“And your knee.”

“It won’t get infected,” he replied, dismissive. 

“Somehow it’s always news to you, but you’re not immortal,” Bucky muttered, scrubbing as gently as he could at the raw spots on his palms.

“I hope you’re right.”

He sighed as he crouched down and cleaned the blood from Steve’s leg.Steve didn’t bother to remind him that he was perfectly capable of doing this himself; it had always been this way.He’d never tended his own aches when Bucky was around.Sometimes he wondered what a therapist might say about their relationship, then and now. 

It had always seemed one-sided to Steve, like he reaped all the benefit.What could he really offer Bucky?There wasn’t much he didn’t have back then.Money, maybe, or status, but that was so far out of either of their reach that it was irrelevant.

Bucky’s sister Rebecca had sent him a letter after they cut him out of the ice, under the pretense of returning his flag and his belongings.Bucky was listed as his next of kin, so, when he went down, his things went to Bucky’s family.He was surprised they held on to it for so long; it was nothing of value and it had to smart, watching over the possessions of the man that had taken their son and brother away from them. 

Rebecca was in her late eighties then, too frail and sickly to see him in person, but she had always had an iron spine.Her handwriting was strong and the words deliberate. 

_Sometimes when you can talk to anyone you can’t actually say very much of substance, and it’s a lonely life.You were the one person James could really talk to, say anything to and know that it was safe.No value can be placed on that.And he could have gone a lot of ways, a boy with that much charm and cleverness and drive, not all of them good.It was you who kept him on the right path.You were the person he was afraid to disappoint.You made him better.You made each other better.We knew you would either come home together, or never come home at all._

Rebecca had not lived to see Bucky return.She had one son, but he died in a car accident in his twenties.There was no one left for Bucky and it pained him.At least Steve had Peggy, however briefly, and however heartbreaking it was to see her face crumble with emotion when every visit was his first visit.

Bucky was frowning at his knee.If he knew him, he was thinking that it needed stitches and considering whether Steve would agree to risk a hospital visit for said stitches.The answer was no, and he wasn’t going to give Bucky the chance to ask because he didn’t feel like arguing.

“You read your letters?”

“One,” Bucky said.“I don’t know how you got through all of them.”

“I’ve thought about those people on and off for years.I guess I was curious.What did your letter say?”

Bucky shook his head and stood up, deeming Steve sufficiently treated.Then he leaned forward into his chest and embraced him.Though he had been dodging him all day, Steve knew right away that this wasn’t sexual.He was a little surprised by the sudden affection, but didn’t hesitate to wind his arms around him.

“Thank you,” Bucky said into his collarbone.“For giving me a place to land.I know it’s not easy.”

It wasn’t, but—

“It’s a hell of a lot easier than living without you.” 

And this time Steve was the one squeezing, holding on until Bucky gave a soft grunt. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are hatched, love is made, pictures are drawn, and Steve is not good at surprises.

Sometime later Bucky looked up from a particularly wrenching episode of Game of Thrones that made him glad he had stopped reading the third book.Steve wasn’t paying any attention to the television or to him.He had been at the table for over an hour with a pen and a notepad, and he was still going strong.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a to-do list,” he replied.He tapped the pen against his lips, squinting as he thought. 

Bucky had a comment, but he kept it to himself.

 

 

 

Steve had slowed down, but he was still at the kitchen table staring into space.Bucky got up to get a glass of water and stopped to look over his shoulder.He didn’t know what he expected to see, exactly, but when the words sunk in a smile tugged at his lips.

It was in no order, and it was a mix of names, places, organizations, and current events.Some of them he knew, some he didn’t, but those he knew were enough to tell him exactly what Steve was thinking. 

 

_Malala_

_Standing Rock_

_Syria_

_Nigeria/Boko Haram kidnappings_

_Flint_

_Orlando_

_Brock Turner_

_Judge who sentenced Brock Turner (google)_

_Haiti_

_Ferguson MO_

_Planned Parenthood_

_Rich jerky pharmaceutical CEOs that price gouge lifesaving medication_

 

And that was just the first page.There were eight more.

“The government is afraid of me,” Steve said.“And I think it’s time I lived up to that.”

He was right.Bucky had known for a long time how powerful Steve was; not physically, but morally… _symbolically._ In today’s world, with his cards played right, his potential to steer and sway public sentiment was tremendous.The difference between Steve and others who did this was that Steve was honest.He hated bullies and he wanted to help _everyone_.It was as simple as that. 

“When do we start?”Bucky asked.

“We need time to plan.After Thanksgiving, maybe?”

Perfect.

“Are you going to scold me every time I do something you don’t agree with?”

“What, like bribe homeless addicts and land 17 people in jail for aiding and abetting a fugitive?”

“Nobody got hurt.That was what you wanted.”He sat down in the chair next to Steve and looked him in the eye.“That’s fine for an excursion to vote.But some of the things on this list…people will try to kill us.We have to shoot back.You know that.” 

Steve glanced at his hands; the scrapes on his palms were covered with neon band-aids they found in the bathroom closet.

“I know,” he said.Then he looked back up at Bucky and his eyes were sad.“I’m sorry I can’t just walk away.I wish I could.”

That wasn’t him.It wasn’t Bucky, either.It was true that after he woke up on that helicarrier he didn’t know _who_ Bucky Barnes was, but every moment spent with Steve was a moment of clarity.He always brought things into focus, made life seem simple and straightforward when it was anything but.That, Bucky thought, was one of his real superpowers, something he’d had long before anyone pumped him full of chemicals and radiation.

A pain hit him then, looking at Steve.It was a longing for him as he had been, once, small and frail and _beautiful,_ with the heart of a lion in a slender, bony chest.If that Steve was here now, the list on the table would be exactly the same.It would never cease to break his heart that in order for anyone to take him seriously, he had to let the government turn him into a killing machine.All so he could look the part of the man he already was, inside.

He _hated_ them.

“Bucky?”

“There’s no walking away,” he said through his teeth.“You can fight forever as long as it’s on your terms, and I’ll be right there with you.”

“ _Our_ terms,” Steve corrected.“But I really hope it isn’t forever.”

 

 

 

It was later, on the couch under blankets while a fire burned in the hearth, that he gave in to the urge to kiss Bucky even though he had been cross and twitchy and smoked eight cigarettes since their earlier conversation.Bucky kissed back with an intensity that told him he might be in for a rough ride.But goddamn, did it feel good to rake tongues with him, to feel his teeth scrape and tug at his lower lip, until the outside world disappeared. 

They broke apart briefly to struggle out of clothing.Steve laid back and bridged his hips up to free himself of his shorts, eyes never leaving Bucky.He loved everything about him.The spot where metal met skin, the birthmark on his right hip, the dark, soft hair on his legs, pouty lips, pale eyes, his very _presence -_ the blend of strength and fragility, danger and comfort, wrapped into the same handsome, charismatic, whip-smart man he’d always known.

Bucky noticed his scrutiny and sought to distract him; they were different in that way.He didn’t care if Bucky looked at him until the end of time.He had never spent much time in the mirror and he knew that Bucky loved him in whatever form he took.Big or small, scarred or unscarred, it didn’t matter.Bucky, on the other hand, didn’t like for Steve to look at him too long.If he thought about it, that self-consciousness had begun when he unstrapped him from Zola’s table in 1943; there had not been a modest bone in his body before that.There had not been a lot of things that they lived with now.

Bucky’s hands slid up Steve’s torso, pushing his shirt and his thoughts away, fingers and palms tickling his skin.His lips followed, kissing a scalding path up to where his jaw met his ear.This was always the part where it became harder to breathe; there was something about that spot and the stretch of neck just beneath it that only Bucky knew, and a few brushes of lips and breath and open-mouthed kisses turned him on to the point of impatience.He tried to turn over - he wanted Bucky inside _now_ \- but he was having none of it.

“On your back tonight,” he murmured, teeth closing in a gentle nip at his earlobe as his weight pressed down on Steve.“Your hands and knees are out of play.”

Not that he felt it, with his body so full of endorphins, but that knee probably _did_ need stitches, and it wasn’t their couch for him to bleed all over when the sex got spirited and reopened the cut.His hands were nothing.Leave it to Bucky to think about it, though.

Bucky’s hips moved, betraying his own impatience.He had waited all day for Steve to find his way out of the weeds.Steve didn’t think for a moment that he wouldn’t exact revenge for that.He only had to wait for whatever form it took.

Not long, as it turned out.He removed Steve’s arms from around his shoulders and pinned them above his head, palms up.His eyes took on a mischievous gleam and he said, “I mean that.Out of play.If I see your hands move from where they are now…”

“You’ll do what?” Steve challenged, conscious of how difficult that would be, and of the fact that willpower was the only kind of binding that could hold him.Bucky knew that, and it was sexy as hell.

“You don’t want to know,” Bucky replied, lips curling into a smile he had not seen in _years._

“I think I might.”And that was the truth.

“Don’t do it, Rogers.You’ll be sorry.”He said no more on the subject; he slid south to kiss his way down Steve’s navel.Steve tried not to curse as his muscles and his cock twitched.He did curse a moment later when Bucky’s tongue traced the length of him, base to tip, before returning to lavish attention on his balls.It became clear that Bucky wasn’t going to make it easy.The urge to fist his hands in Bucky’s hair as he sucked and tongued his testicles was overwhelming.

Steve dug his fingers into the neon bandaids and tried to endure it.It was a struggle.As Bucky moved on to the most frustratingly casual blowjob he’d ever received, he debated whether it was better to wait for whatever reward he’d get for good behavior or say fuck it and find out what Bucky thought could pass as a consequence.The trouble was that he wanted both.Steve lifted his hips, pressing further into Bucky’s mouth - he had not forbidden that - and for a few moments he let Steve thrust shallowly.Then he pulled back altogether, and Steve had to bite back a groan at the loss of sensation. 

“Keep it up, Rogers,” he said as he crept up his body.“We’ll be here all night.”

“That a promise?”

Bucky couldn’t quite contain a smirk.“You have a smart mouth.Let’s see what you can do with it besides talk.”

 

 

 

And his plan was in shambles because he underestimated how wound up he was, and how much Steve liked a cock in his throat, and how hot it was to watch him _struggle_ to keep his hands above his head as Bucky thrust into his mouth.It was hard to tell who was more turned on.

Well, there _was_ all night, and they didn’t have to sleep.He released his hold on what little control he had and let Steve push him over the edge.He was so good at that, so _good_ …

The orgasm was glorious, and he still marveled that the human body and mind were capable of such a thing.He didn’t remember it being so _shattering_ before, but maybe he had just gone too long without, or relied too heavily on the physical.It wasn’t plain sensation that made him come like that.It was his mind, the emotional connection…it was _Steve._

His eyes refocused on Steve, who was panting and bright eyed.His hands were still above his head but the bandaids were almost completely off, showing pink, half-healed skin.He was trying not to squirm.The muscles in his thighs, twitching and contracting restlessly,and the wet trail down the side of his abdomen gave away how desperately aroused he was.It was a picture of beauty, and he was glad that there was only one other person in the world who had ever seen it.

Bucky leaned down and groped under the couch for the bottle of lube they’d left there.There were a few scattered around the house and he just knew they would forget one, and Delia’s best friend’s uncle would make an awkward discovery after they left.Such was life.He squeezed lube onto his hand with a practiced motion, and Steve groaned like he was in _pain_ when Bucky stroked it over his cock.Then he climbed astride him and impaled himself, grimacing but elated, loving the dance of pleasure-pain along his nerve endings.It wasn’t the plan but it was what he wanted to do, just then. 

Steve clenched his teeth and arched and _almost_ lost control.Somehow he held on, and once he found his discipline he opened his eyes and met Bucky’s.Bucky leaned forward, winding his fingers into Steve’s.Then he began a slow rhythm, the roll of hips that Steve sometimes did to him when he was teasing, and he catalogued every expression, every flicker of pleasure and emotion, his eyes never leaving the mirroring blue of Steve’s.

Steve could only take so much, and his hips began to rise in time with Bucky’s movement.At last Bucky gave him permission, pulling his hands to his waist, whispering, “Go,” in a hoarse voice.He needed no other prompting; Steve’s hands slid down to grip his buttocks, fingers bruising, and he got his legs under him.He thrust hard and Bucky didn’t fight the moan that bubbled in his throat.

He leaned back, reeling in both his pleasure and Steve’s, trusting Steve’s hands to hold him, the join of their pelvises anchoring him to a place, to a _life_ he had thought of leaving many times.No more.Steve’s voice was rising as he neared his peak and he got lost in it.It was _addictive_ , this power to please.

He rode out the long, fitful orgasm that rocked Steve, realizing that he loved the rise and fall of this position, swells on the ocean.Steve was incapable of speech but he kissed him like a man possessed when it was done.He didn’t kiss like that often, open-mouthed, more tongue than lips.Bucky was light-headed; this was the closest thing he’d felt to being drunk in years.His body thrummed.Everything was tender, sensitive, nerves vibrating like tuning forks, and Steve was _not_ done, if the slow breach and curl of his fingers was any indication.

The night was young, and they were young - not chronologically or spiritually, to be certain, but young in this discovery - and they had decades ahead to wring pleasure out of one another in a thousand ways.Starting with this.Starting with tonight. 

 

 

 

They slept until one in the afternoon.Steve didn’t go running; he was sore enough to limp slightly and knew that last night was more than adequate to substitute for his usual workout.Fucking one another raw wasn’t just a saying.They had done it.

There was a jar of scented epsom salts in the cabinet near the soaking tub and it saved their lives. 

“Y’know,” Bucky said, drowsing against Steve’s chest in the hot, verbena-scented water, “some nights back then I’d go out dancing for hours and then make time with a girl and I never felt anything like this the next day.”

“What’d ya go for, like three minutes?” Steve needled, smirking.

Bucky elbowed him.“Actually, sometimes I had trouble.Not staying hard, but coming.I thought it was the booze.”He lifted his left shoulder in a lazy shrug.“The girls liked it.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“You ever have that problem?”

“No.Well, only if my mind wasn’t in the right place.Like the other night, when you had to…”

“Mm.”He poked his toes above the water and wiggled them.“So it’s…bisexual, what we are?”

“That’s the word they use nowadays, yeah.But they talk a lot about a spectrum.About nobody really being 100 percent anything.”

“I can believe that.”Bucky was quiet for a moment, pondering.“A few of those dames I really liked.Usually the spitfires that would slap you as soon as sleep with you, or slap you _while_ they slept with you.” He chuckled.“But the others, something was missing.Guess it was a penis.”

“Guess so.”Steve wrapped his arms around him.He had missed talking like this - with ease and without judgment, about anything, just like when they were young and whole.They talked a lot now but so much of the conversation was weighted down with phantoms and ghosts. 

“Do you think you like women or men more?” Bucky asked.

“I think I like you and I don’t need anyone else,” Steve said.

“Oh, I don’t know, a third person might be fun,” Bucky teased.

Steve laughed.“Who would be that stupid?” 

“Or that brilliant.”

“ _You_ would share?”

“I’m an excellent sharer.”

“You’re really not.”Steve smiled.Bucky hated to give up even one bite of his dessert when they were out and he had already seen in his and Sam’s initial rocky interactions that he was the jealous type.But it was a two-way street; Steve knew without having to examine things too much that he did _not_ want to share Bucky with anyone.

“What’s the word…” Bucky said.“Buzzkill?”

“You so tired of me already that you need to spice things up, Barnes?”

“Nah, pal,” he said around a yawn.“Just like to wind you up.”

“Yeah, well, no matter how _wound up_ you get me today, we are taking the day off.”

Bucky tried to crane his neck to look at him but only succeeded in pressing his temple against Steve’s chin.“Did I hurt you?”

“No.Just too much of a good thing.”

“Okay.Planning day.”

“Eh.Tomorrow.”

“Mm hmm.”

They only made it as far as the couch that day.Stranger Things was marathoned and at first Steve thought that was a mistake when he realized one of the main characters was someone like Bucky.But the _look_ he got when he said maybe they should pick something else made him realize he was flirting with pity-land, so he let it play all the way through.Bucky had a hard time catching his breath during the scenes with the sensory deprivation tank, and he cried - correction, _sobbed -_ at the end.But when it was all over, he looked at Steve, eyes red-rimmed, and said,

“That was _great_.”

It took him a few hours, but eventually he understood.Bucky didn’t cry like that for Eleven.He cried for Will Byers, rescued from the Upside Down but never truly able to leave it.

In a few more hours, he realized he should be the one crying for Eleven, because he _was_ Eleven.A child in a lab, eager to please, without any understanding of his power or the way others wanted to use it.A scarred presence in a world that made no more sense to him than he did to it.And the monster, well, that was the beast of human ingenuity, unleashed by Erskine and Steve himself.It had been devouring people for ages; people like Bucky, Wanda and Pietro, Bruce, even Tony.But unlike Eleven, Steve couldn’t stop that beast.Nothing could.

Then he did cry, thankful that Bucky was asleep and that it was a form of art that pushed him there.But art imitated life, someone smarter than him once said, and for the first time in _ages_ he felt it.

The urge to draw.

 

 

 

The days filtered by, fast as flip book animation, and they weren’t getting much done in the way of planning.But they were getting a lot done in terms of existence.There were sunrises and morning coffees on the deck, silence and contemplation under a field of stars Steve had not seen since Clint’s farmhouse at night.They talked about everything and nothing as autumn deepened.Worked on Steve’s goal of obscene amounts of sex before Inauguration Day.Ate, drank, smoked, loved - even danced once, when an old favorite came on Pandora.Steve only stepped on Bucky’s feet once, and it was mostly because Bucky’s hands were roaming. 

They spent a little time in town when the isolation began to grate on their city-starved minds.Other days Steve dragged Bucky on hikes in the National Park and he marveled at how fearless Bucky could be, pulling himself up or over the sides of mountains so he could get a better view, sometimes hanging on by nothing but his metal fingers.These weren’t the Alps but there was still a chance that he would fall and get hurt.He climbed anyway, with a glee that Steve didn’t understand but was glad to witness.

After he bought a sketchbook Steve drew so much that he forgot to eat and sleep if Bucky didn’t remind him.Paint and canvas weren’t far behind.Bucky watched the way he had back then, draped over the fire escape in the breathless heat of summer in New York before air conditioning - before the realization that many of Steve’s drawings were of him.

It was two days before Thanksgiving when Bucky remembered he had invited T’Challa and an unknown host of others over for the holiday.He had to clean and he had to shop.The house wasn’t terrible because he and Steve never forgot it wasn’t theirs, but there wasn’t nearly enough food in the cupboards.Steve was lost in a project and Bucky figured he wouldn’t want to go shopping since he made it clear about a thousand times that he hated it.But of course when he announced he was going, Steve said he needed a break from his painting.

Bucky studied the canvas as Steve got himself together.It was partially finished, but he had no idea what it was; there were no hard lines in it to define anything.The colors were murky, rippled green-blue, except where he had begun to introduce yellow and orange and the tiniest bit of rusted red.

It didn’t go with the others.He had painted three so far.The first was Steve’s mother, her face young but also fearful and haggard, hands clutched in front of her mouth with a worn rosary in her fingers.The edges were blurred, the colors vivid - a fever dream.

The second evoked a sensation of claustrophobia and cold metal; there was a small window just right of center that seemed at the same time very close and very far away.There was a man’s face in the window.It was no one Bucky recognized but he was meaningful to Steve; his face was culled with care and honesty.He wore a nervous expression, as if he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing but couldn’t stop himself.

The third was hard to look at.Somehow Steve had managed to paint the appearance of snow under glass.A pool of blood marred it, leaking into cracks in the glass and spidering out, leading to a pair of hands white with cold.They were oriented as if the owner of those hands was laying on his side.The hands were worse than the blood; they were clawed in helpless languor, only hours away from rigor mortis.

And now this.Bucky tilted his head sideways, trying to understand.

“You like it?” Steve asked, from right next to him. 

He jumped, spooked, and a vicious reflex made his left arm swing.Steve had already realized his mistake and ducked.His hands steadied Bucky when the follow-through put him off balance.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Bucky breathed.Blood rushed in his ears.Bucky returned his gaze to the painting because its ripples were comforting somehow.He stood there, heart pounding, thinking how far they had come from day one.Still broken, but a little less so in each other’s company.

“No, I should know better,” Steve said, and kissed his temple.

All of a sudden he realized what he was looking at.“It’s water.”

“Yes.”

He reached out to touch, only just stopping himself when he remembered the paint was still wet.“Underwater?”

Steve nodded.

“How do you do that?” he asked, voice full of awe.

“Dunno,” Steve said truthfully.“But it feels really good.”

 

 

 

“Bucky?”

“Hm?” 

“I know I eat a lot, but do we really need a turkey _and_ a ham for Thanksgiving?”

Bucky was looking at him like he’d lost his mind.“Yes.”

“Twelve sweet potatoes?”

“They keep, Steve.For God’s sake.You wanna do the shopping?”

Not a chance in hell.He put his hands up in supplication and removed himself to the magazine aisle, where he could read The Economist until Bucky was done.

 

 

 

It wasn’t until Thanksgiving morning that he understood the quantities Bucky had purchased earlier in the week.He slept later than usual so he woke alone, and there were…voices?At first he thought maybe Bucky just had the television turned up loud, but then a woman spoke, and he would know that voice _anywhere_. 

Nat.

If Nat was here something must be wrong.His mind, still half-asleep, could only process one thing.He had to protect Bucky.He shot out of bed. 

He threw the bedroom door open so hard it rattled on the hinges and bounded out to the common area, ready to fight.He had only the slightest second to be thankful that he was at least wearing underwear.There were a half dozen people in the kitchen and living room, dressed well and smiling with drinks in their hands.Bucky, Natasha, Sam, Wanda, T’Challa, and Maria were all getting an eyeful. 

“You okay, Steve?” Bucky said.He was standing by the stove, whisk in hand, looking both guilty and concerned.Natasha was next to him with a glass of what looked like ice water, but he would bet any amount of money was actually vodka.

“Yeah.I thought…” he shook his head.“I don’t know what I thought.”

Natasha handed her glass to Bucky.“Keep cooking.I’ll take care of this.”

 

 

 

He let Nat lead him back to the bedroom.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, once they were behind a closed door.“James thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“It is.I guess I just assume the worst, sometimes.”

“It’s okay to assume the worst as long as you still hope for the best.”

He eyed her.“That sounds like something Sam would say.”

And he was on target, because Natasha actually blushed.Only someone who knew her very well would notice, but it was there.She cleared her throat.

“Well, we have been spending some time together.”

“He’s an amazing person.”

“I’m discovering that.”She was uneasy, but making a real effort to be open with him.He knew how hard that was for her.

“Bucky’s been awake for a while now, hasn’t he,” Steve said.He suspected it in Detroit and now he knew he was right.

“Yes.Almost four months.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?I wanted to be there.You knew that.”

“Steve,” she said softly, “you were - you _are_ \- clinically depressed.I’m no expert but Sam is and so are T’Challa’s doctors.The worst thing we could have done was drag you into a situation where you had to face the horrible things that were done to one of your best friends.To someone you love.”

“But what about him?” he demanded.“You’re strangers to him.He deserved someone he knew.You have no idea what it’s like to have to look for comfort from strangers.”

“I do, actually.”Natasha picked at imaginary lint on her dress.“You end up not looking for it at all, and you hold on to everything ugly until you start to rot away from the inside.”

Her words took the breath from him.Natasha never flinched away from an uncomfortable truth and this was no exception.It was something that could only be described by someone who had gone through it, and not for the first time, he felt _schooled._

“I’m sorry.I’m sorry I say shitty things like that.”

“We all say shitty things.It’s the human condition.”

He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes.“I just…I really wanted to be there for him.”

Natasha sat down next to him.“We asked him what he wanted.When he had all the facts and understood everything that happened, he didn’t want to cause you more pain.Said you had given up enough for him.”

It was never enough.Nothing would ever make up for leaving him behind.Tears pricked his eyes and Natasha squeezed his knee until he was able to get them under control.

“Tell me that you woke him up because you found a cure.”

She nodded.

“So he’s cured?”He could not keep the disbelief out of his voice.He couldn’t be cured; if he was cured, he wouldn’t have reverted the way he did a few weeks ago.Would he?

“No.Not yet.We’ve made a hell of a lot of progress, though.He’s a workhorse.”

“Yes, he is,” Steve murmured.

“There are ten words to activate him, right?” Natasha said.“It’s conditioning.Present a stimulus, pair it with a consequence or reward, get the desired behavior.We thought that each word probably paired with some kind of…” and here she paused and looked up at him, eyes apologetic, “torture or traumatic event meant to break him.Meant to strip away everything but the urge to comply.” 

“It makes sense,” Steve said, willing himself not to think about what her words really conveyed.

“We were able to work our way through nine of the ten words.It took some work but he either had clear memories of what the stimulus was, or was able to recall them through hypnosis.From there we could try to either desensitize or modify the conditioning so he could stay grounded.”

“But the tenth word?”

“No memory.Nothing we tried got any results.He could make it through most of the words without blinking, but that tenth word…” she shook her head.“Gone.”

_Gone_. 

“What’s the tenth word?”

She said it in Russian, then in English.

“Freight car?You’re serious?” he asked.“He fell off a fucking freight car to start this whole mess.Never mind finding a freight car full of half-dead people on their way to be gassed by the Nazis before that.”

“He said the same thing.It seems obvious but it’s not.The words don’t necessarily correlate to something you think they should represent.I’m sorry to say it, but whatever this one represents is far worse than either of his freight car experiences.The way it just…rips him away, it’s…”She sighed.“It’s something awful and I don’t blame him for not remembering.”

Neither did Steve.He could only imagine the stress and angst involved with trying to remember something that every part of him wanted to keep buried.He knew that Bucky would try.He wanted so badly to be free.

“So how did he end up with me?”

“He needed a break and you needed help.It seemed like the right move.”

Steve was surprised they’d let him go uncured, and more surprised Bucky would agree to it.But he liked - no, _needed -_ a mission to stay anchored; Steve understood that quickly.Unstructured time was no good in Bucky’s world.That was why he was always reading, cooking, watching things on TV, and initiating sex.If his choices were to stay in Wakanda and rest or go to Detroit to help Steve, he would choose Steve every time, no matter what challenges that entailed.He didn’t know how to rest.

“I did need help,” Steve admitted.“I do.But others need it more.”

“You can get by that way for a long time,” Natasha said.“You’ve made it almost five years.But you’re no help to anyone if you’re so unhappy that you can’t get out of bed.”

He couldn’t argue with that.He still didn’t like being left out of Bucky’s recovery process, but there was some comfort to be found in the fact that it was in part Bucky’s choice.And if they were here and telling him now, it meant that they were ready for him to get involved.

“What happens if we can’t figure out the tenth word?”

Natasha met his eyes and took hold of his hand.It always amazed him how delicate she was; those hands were capable of all the same things his were, and worse.

“Then you’re out,” she said.“Both of you.”

He said nothing.In his gut, he knew that Bucky wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how to rest.He also knew how valuable Bucky was to the people who had created the Winter Soldier.They wouldn’t stop looking for him.

“This isn’t what we’re here for, not today,” Natasha said after a long minute.“Let’s get you dressed.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving, Part 1: a celebration and a close call.

Steve emerged with Natasha twenty minutes after his initial appearance.Bucky stole the occasional glance at him as he made the rounds, smiling and hugging.He knew everyone there except Maria.He couldn’t suppress his natural suspicion, but Steve’s eyes were warm when he looked at her and he hugged her like someone that mattered.He would still reserve his judgment until he could size her up properly, but for the time being, she was all right.

Natasha wandered back to reclaim her vodka.

“He’s up to speed?” Bucky asked, voice low so only she could hear.

“For the most part.”

“Is he mad?”

“No.”

“Is he sad?”

She took a long sip of her drink.“Of course.” 

Bucky sighed.“I’m working on that.”

She reached over him for a glass and poured a healthy portion of vodka.He raised an eyebrow.She knew it wouldn’t do anything for him and he said as much.

“It’s not for you, it’s for Sam.”She switched to Russian.“Can you believe he thinks Grey Goose is the best in the world?”

“Heathen,” he replied.“You must educate him.”

“They’re speaking Russian already,” Sam said from across the room.“They’re plotting.”

Natasha smiled, and there was a twinkle in her eye that he understood.She left him to his cooking, though he only got a few minutes to check his potatoes and the bread rising before Steve appeared beside him.

“Hi,” he said.He looked good, though it was clear that Natasha had picked his outfit.

“Hey.”He stirred his gravy and brought the spoon up for Steve to taste.“How is it?”

“Ridiculous,” he said, licking his lips, “but you could have just used the powdered stuff like everyone else.Didn’t have to go through all this effort.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn't say that.” 

Steve was standing close to him, well inside the radius of comfortable personal space for people that weren’t intimately acquainted.He had wondered how he would react to having others around.He kissed him in public in Detroit, held his hand in town here, but those people were all strangers.These were his closest friends outside Bucky himself.

He reached up to brush flour from Bucky’s cheek.“Malfunctioning cryo-tube, huh?”

“At least I’m a better liar than you.”

“Just about anyone is.”

He joked about it, but he didn’t like lying to Steve, not at all.He had no idea what he was walking into back in October or if he could even handle it, and they had warned him that Steve was in a bad way and maybe it was best not to talk about—

Steve leaned forward and kissed him.It was sweet and quick but full of promise.It made his brain stall.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.“Just wish I could have been there for you like you have for me.Thank you for this.”

 

 

 

Natasha kept an eye on Steve and James as she playfully railroaded Sam into drinking enough vodka for a pre-dinner buzz.There was something earnest about Sam that she enjoyed; it made flirting easy and fun and strangely innocent.It was leading to something…maybe tonight, in fact, and she felt no qualms about it. 

But for now, she watched Steve and James, their body language, their eyes and hands.The chemistry between them was undeniable, but had they acted on it?It turned out there was no need for spying.Steve leaned forward and kissed him, right there by the stove for all to see, though she thought maybe she was the only one who caught it.Ah, no - T’Challa and Maria had seen it, too.

Score one for Clint Barton, who had politely declined the invitation in favor of spending Thanksgiving with his wife and children.Score a million for Steve and James.

“So it’s like that, huh?” Sam said, close to her ear.He was more observant than she gave him credit for.

“It’s like that,” she repeated.

“Thought it might be, the lengths he was willing to go for him.”His eyes were on Steve and she saw how deeply Sam cared for him.“I just hope it goes both ways.”

“It does,” Natasha said softly.She couldn’t explain to him how difficult it was to break away from cognitive programming and indoctrination, and hers, while lifelong and punishing, had nothing on what had been done to Barnes.The fact that Steve was able to pull him out of that not once, but _twice_ , spoke volumes.

“Cheers, then,” Sam said, accepting her words as divine writ.“To new beginnings.”

She touched her glass of vodka to his and smiled, and for the rest of the evening, her focus was on Sam.Steve and James were just fine.

 

 

 

“This whole time you have been in Wakanda and you have kept your cooking skills a secret,” T’Challa said in a mock accusatory tone.“I am personally offended.”

“Seriously, man.You cook like a grandmother on steroids.I'm going to explode,” Sam said.“Steve, how are you not 500 pounds?”

“I think I am, right now.”

“He gets plenty of exercise,” Bucky said, hiding a smile in the glass of vodka that Natasha had finally talked him into.There wasn’t much Russian that he liked or missed, but he didn’t mind vodka.

“I’m sure he does,” T’Challa said, rather more suggestive than any of them had ever heard.Then again, he had also had four glasses of wine, so he could be forgiven for showing some personality beyond what was expected of him as a king.

Bucky focused on draining his glass, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that Steve blushed to the roots of his hair, provoking laughter around the table.It was out. _They_ were out, and nobody seemed to care.

“Five hundred pounds or not, there’s dessert,” he said to a chorus of groans.Only Maria seemed completely unfazed by the amount of food consumed; the woman could _eat,_ lean as she was.

“Is there pumpkin pie?” she asked.

“There is.”

“Pie made of pumpkins?” Wanda asked.“I’ve never eaten this.” 

“Oh, it’s good,” Maria assured her.“I’m ready.”

“Me too!” Wanda said.

“Mercy, please,” Sam protested.“I can’t put another thing in my stomach right now.”

“Me either,” Natasha seconded.

“Steve?”

“Need a break.”

“T’Challa?”

“Break.”

“The majority has spoken.We’re adjourned,” Bucky said.

 

 

 

Maria actually hip-checked him out of the way when he went to the sink to start cleaning. 

“Oh, no,” she said in response to his incredulous look.“You cooked it.You’re not going to clean it, too.First rule of being a holiday guest.”

“Just listen to her,” Steve said from his spot on the couch. 

Sam sauntered up.“You’re washing, I’m drying.I have to do something or I’ll fall asleep.”

“I’ll put away,” Wanda said.And just like that they formed an assembly line of sorts, and Bucky was dismissed.

 

 

Steve felt a deep contentment as he sat digesting on the couch.Natasha and T’Challa were both dozing on the other end of the sectional, and Bucky sat Indian-style next to him.He was watching the others in the kitchen, eyes slightly narrowed.They were efficient; they had torn through most of the dishes already and Wanda was using her powers to open and shut the cabinets and levitate everything back to where it belonged.It was kind of mesmerizing, actually.

“Talk to me about Maria,” Bucky said.

“She more or less ran SHIELD when the heavy hitters were sitting in meetings.One of the smartest and _nicest_ people I’ve ever met.Saved my life on a number of occasions.”Steve nodded to himself.“If you want something done and done well, get Maria on it.”

“Reminds me of Peggy, a bit.”

He was right, except Maria was either lucky enough to live in a time where she didn’t have to prove herself to anyone, or she had done said proving a long, long time ago.

“You trust her?” Bucky asked.

“I do.”While his faith in many things had been shaken, he knew that Maria would never intentionally do anything to hurt him, and that she wasn’t afraid to stand up to anyone in order to do what was right.“When I first woke up, she was so patient with me, and it couldn’t have been easy.She treated me like family.”But even Maria had her limitations, and as difficult as it was to be objective about her, he owed it to Bucky.“Only catch is, whatever is said here will get back to Fury.”

He absorbed that as he watched her push a lock of hair out of her face with a soapy hand.“She his lady friend?”

“I think so.I never came right out and asked, though.”

Bucky made a face.“She can do better.”

“Probably,” he agreed.His feelings on Nick remained conflicted.He knew that they had the same endgame - safety, security, peace - but their approaches were entirely different.Nick was willing to use deception, force, and whatever resources were available (ethical or otherwise) in order meet his goals.Steve wasn’t.Maybe he wasn’t living in the reality of the modern world, but he had felt the sting of that deception one too many times.

“Steve, I didn’t invite everyone here just for the holiday.There are serious things we need to talk about tomorrow.Should she be here if we know where the information will go?”

“I can’t answer that without knowing what we’re going to talk about.”

“Me,” Bucky said.“And you.And the cure.”

Steve exhaled.The cure.From what Nat said, they had stalled in their progress and weren’t sure how to proceed.His gut told him Maria was an incredible resource for all the reasons he’d mentioned to Bucky.The real threat was from any of this getting back to Fury.But what did it matter if Nick knew?He wasn’t in charge of anything anymore.He was out there hunting down Hydra agents one by one, and while he still had allies, nothing was on the same scale.

_I didn’t know about Barnes_ , he had said.And he seemed as apologetic as he could ever get.Nick Fury wasn’t a man who apologized.

“She stays,” Steve said, and hoped he wouldn’t regret it. 

 

 

Dessert had come and gone along with the sunset, and coffee was the only thing keeping anyone awake.Sam put on a movie and they were strewn across the sectional and living room floor.Bucky was trying to watch the movie but the day’s effort had caught up to him, and his eyes kept drooping.

Steve poked him in the ribs.“Your medicine,” he whispered in his ear.They had agreed that since everyone was staying over, it would be best if there were no nightmares tonight. 

Bucky nodded, bleary eyed, and got up.He sauntered back toward the bedroom.Steve expected him to be gone for a little while, but he strolled out a minute later with a bag and lighter and deposited both on the coffee table.The clatter of the lighter drew everyone’s attention.

“Well, hello,” Natasha said.

“Bucky!” Steve exclaimed, exasperated.He knew with absolute certainty that this was revenge for the other day, when he told Bucky he was bad at sharing.It was confirmed a moment later.

“What?” Bucky said with a wicked smirk.“Sharing is caring, Steve.”He pulled out a second lighter, lit his joint, and reclaimed his spot on the couch.

“What is that?” Wanda asked.“It doesn’t smell like a cigarette.”

“It’s better,” Natasha replied, sliding off the couch and reaching for the bag.“You can try some of mine.”

“Is this happening?” Sam asked.

“It’s happening,” Steve said, caving to the inevitable and leaning over to wrest the joint from Bucky. 

 

 

 

Sam stopped short on his way out of the bathroom because Steve Rogers was in his path, face anxious.

“Are you mad?”

“What?No.Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know, because I’m not even a quarter of the person you think I am?”He was chewing on a fingernail, and it was crazy, this titan standing there waiting for judgment, simply for being himself among friends. 

“Steve.You’re human.I know the weed helps with the PTSD, I smoked plenty of it when I first got back.And you’re allowed to love whoever you want.I don’t know if anyone ever told you that, but it’s fine.You’re fine.”

He laughed, hand over his face.“I’m a lot of things, Sam, but I am _not_ fine.”

“Well, join the club.”He took hold of Steve’s shoulders and gave him a gentle shake.“Relax.There are no cameras here.You don’t have to be Captain America all the time.Just be Steve.”

Steve took a breath and nodded.Then he looked up, and his face was grateful.“I know it seems silly to you, but in my time, this was the stuff that could lose you everything you had.Not that I had much.”

“It’s gonna take a lot more than being bi and smoking pot to lose me, or anyone here.”He held up a finger.“Do _not_ take that as a challenge, Rogers.”

He smiled, knowing full well he deserved that, and Sam had never liked him more. 

“I won’t.”

 

 

 

Wanda was there when he stepped outside for a cigarette, draped over the lounger he usually sat in to smoke his evening joint.Things had always been strange between them.Bucky thought perhaps they were unsure how to start a friendship, since most began with something in common.The only thing they had in common was a past full of manipulation and pain.Neither wanted to touch that, and as a result they were comfortable acquaintances.Privately, Bucky admired her strength.She wasn’t as fragile as him.That fragile part of him wanted to turn around and go back inside.Six weeks ago, he would have.Not tonight.

He unfolded a second lounger and took the spot next to her.She looked over and smiled.Her cheeks were rosy, her pupils wide.The weed had hit her hard, but with the most pleasant of consequences; it erased the premature seriousness from her features and the restraint from her demeanor.

Bucky smiled back and lit his cigarette, content with the silence.It took him a few minutes to realize that she was mimicking him, swirling red tendrils of energy like smoke from the tip of her pointer finger.It was incredible how she could control it.As he watched the energy swirled into an intricate mandala above them.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

She spun it slowly with a graceful hand.“It helps me think.”

He traced the lines of the mandala in his mind, finding the stability of patterns and order, and it was comforting.Something made him say, “I try not to think.”

“I did that for a while,” she murmured, fingers pulling the mandala apart into layers so that it appeared three dimensional.“It’s another kind of trap.”

He took a long drag of the cigarette and blew out a set of smoke rings to mingle with her magic.The play of light and smoke made it look tornadic; she obligingly twirled the rings.Order devolved into chaos.

“Doesn’t it get overwhelming to let things in?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Bucky sighed and tossed the truth out into the cool air, because he knew she would understand.“You must not have an insatiable urge to shoot people or yourself when you’re overwhelmed.” 

“No,” she allowed.“But I get afraid.Of everything…especially myself.”

He knew what that was like. 

Wanda sat up suddenly, as if an idea had struck her.The distorted mandala disappeared.She rose to her feet and walked toward the railing.The she lifted her hands above her head.They glowed red, and at first nothing happened, but then…

His mouth fell open. 

 

 

 

Steve was half asleep on the couch with Maria leaning against his shoulder when there was a rap at the door to the deck.It was the sound of metal on glass.Maria was up first, ever vigilant.T’Challa was next.Steve dragged himself from the couch, willing the cobwebs to clear for a second time that day, but he relaxed when he saw Bucky’s outline through the glass door.He turned briefly and gestured for them to come outside.

He went and the others followed.Except Sam and Natasha, who were conspicuously absent.They stepped out onto the deck and right away he saw Wanda with her arms raised to the heavens.Beyond her the sky danced with ripples of light, red, yellow, green, blue - an aurora.

Surely they were too far south for that.How…?

Then it dawned on him.He leaned to Bucky and whispered, “Is _she_ doing that?”

He nodded.Steve pulled his eyes from Bucky back up to the sky.He had never seen an aurora and there was more than a little irony in that.No doubt these lights had danced over him a thousand times in his icy tomb in the Arctic.It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed.

“Do you know what this means?” he heard Maria say.

“No,” T’Challa replied.It was clear from the awe in his voice that he had never seen an aurora, either.

“It means she can influence the planet’s magnetic field.She can simulate solar wind.She’s causing an aurora from _inside_ the atmosphere.”Maria was breathless with wonder.“That’s just…it’s just…”

“I don’t understand any of that, but it is amazing,” T’Challa said. 

Steve didn’t comprehend what Maria was saying either - it was news to him that the sun had _wind_ \- but he did get that it was big in scale.Whatever Wanda was doing took tremendous power.He knew she had that in her; he had watched her control a _bomb,_ for God’s sake, a bomb meant for him.Like so many other times, something designed to hurt him ended up hurting others…Wanda included. 

After a few minutes her knees began to wobble and Steve was there to support her.She relaxed into his arms with a dreamy smile on her face.

“I always wanted to try that,” she said, “but I was too afraid.”

 

 

 

There weren’t many things that could have distracted him from Natasha peeling off her dress, but the strange light from the window was one of them.

“How much vodka did you give me?” Sam asked, blinking, unsure if it was real.He knew he shouldn’t have indulged in alcohol and weed in the same night.

“Not enough to cause hallucinations,” she replied.She walked up to the window in her lingerie and he couldn’t help but stare at her, silhouetted in blue-green light.She was absolutely the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.“I think Wanda is doing it.”

“Wanda can _make the Northern Lights_?” 

“I guess so.”

To say his mind was blown was an understatement.

“Why do you people even keep me around?I’m _useless_ , I’m like the water boy to the gods—”

Natasha cut him off with a fierce kiss that made him forget the light show.As he blinked stupidly in the aftermath, she said, “We are damn lucky you’re here.”Her pointer finger stabbed into his shirt between his pectorals and he became very aware that he was overdressed. 

“I still think I’m the lucky one,” Sam returned.He reached out to touch the scar on her shoulder, where she’d been shot in the fight on the freeway three years before.She had barely blinked; she was just like Steve in that way.She would have bled out before giving up.

Hesitantly, he slid his fingers beneath the strap of her bra, thumb trailing along her collarbone.When her lips curled into a smile he knew he was doing the right thing.He didn’t have any idea if it would just be tonight or if by some fortuitous alignment of the stars it might happen again, but who was he to ask questions?

 

 

 

 

Bucky tried to start something, he really did, but he was too tired.He fell asleep mid-kiss and Steve smiled, shifting him so they could spoon up in their pile of blankets.Maria and Wanda had taken the bunk beds, Sam and Natasha the full, and T’Challa their room, leaving him and Bucky the couch.But there wasn’t room for two fully grown men to lie together on the couch - not comfortably, anyway - so the floor won out.It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.

He was tired, also.He had forgotten what it was like to be around so many people - as if six other humans was somehow a multitude.It was nice to see everyone, and he felt somehow recharged, but the day’s authenticity had worn him out.Steve didn’t fight the tide of exhaustion.He drifted off with one leg threaded between Bucky’s and his smell mingled with those of Thanksgiving in his consciousness.

 

 

 

Tony had a splitting headache.Holidays did that to him, whether he spent them alone or not.Pepper ate dinner with him and Rhodey came over for a nightcap, but neither lingered, leaving him to nurse one too many glasses of whiskey and the millionth cycle of _what can I do to make it like it used to be._

So he took a Valium and went to bed, and he was right there in that sweet spot, about to fall asleep, when his phone rang.If that wasn’t bad enough, it was fucking _Thaddeus Ross._ He groaned and cursed self indulgently and let it go until the very last ring because he could.

“Hi, this is Tony Stark reminding you that it is one am on a major American holiday weekend and the person you are currently trying to reach is sleeping—”

“Stark, don’t fuck around.I don’t want to be awake either, but we’ve got something you need to check out.”

“What?Is someone voting somewhere?”

“Don’t get me started on your antics with Rogers’ accomplices.”

“Accomplices?Right, right, all those citizens springing to the aid of someone who’s had his ribs caved in a hundred times to defend them.That must _really_ burn you up.” 

And he said it with more anger than he meant to, not because the anger wasn’t valid - it was, he’d hacked Walter Reed’s computer and looked at those x-rays and scans done on Steve that the lady talked about, and the man had _literally_ broken every bone in his body at least once, even the tiny fucking ones in his ears according to some audiologist named Rajesh - but because he was trying not to let Ross know outright that he was just about done cooperating with him when it came to Captain America.The thing was, he was so sarcastic in everyday life that oftentimes people thought he was joking when he was being completely truthful.Hopefully this would be one of those times that Ross wrote him off as just being a pain in the ass. 

“Are we going to have a problem, Tony?”

“No, no.No problem other than the usual set of problems we’ve always had.”

“Speaking of those problems, we think Thor might have made an appearance tonight.”

“What?Thor?Why?”

“An unexplained incidence of aurora borealis too far south of usual auroral zone, without sufficient solar activity to cause it.”

“That’s it?Some pretty colors in the sky?You’re waking me up for this?Jesus Christ, where?”

“Great Smoky Mountains.Southeast of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.”

Of course it was Tennessee.

“You want me to get out of my nice warm bed and fly to Tennessee - one of my _favorite_ places, by the way - to investigate lights in the sky.Is there not a paranormal squad for this?Like, Ghost Hunters or something?”

“I’m not asking you, Tony, I’m telling you.There are empty cells in The Raft if you’d rather sleep there tonight.”

Tony snorted.“Couldn’t hold them, and it wouldn’t hold me.You know that.I’ll tell you what.I’ll go to Tennessee and I’ll even write a nice little report about all the nothing I find.But you’re going to do something for me.”

Ross actually laughed, and for a second Tony envisioned ripping him limb from limb; the man’s arrogance induced a certain strain of rage for which his own arrogance offered no defense.“Oh, I gotta hear this.What is it that you want, Tony?” he asked, all condescension.

“You’re going to drop the charges against those people.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“Then you’ll go hunting for Asgardians yourself.And everything else, all those splinter organizations that go bump in the night or things that come through giant portals in the sky or levitate entire cities in the air, you’re on your own.I can retire.We can _all_ retire.Or maybe just form a union, you know, organize, go on strike when you don’t treat us right.All superheroes on strike as of 2 am Black Friday, the year of our Lord 2016.”

“That will never happen.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Has no one warned you that the best way to get Tony Stark to do anything is to tell him he can’t do it?That’s like Fury’s first law of herodynamics, really elementary stuff.But hey, you let me know how it goes when you find Loki or some other nut job from another dimension in Tennessee.I really look forward to your phone call.I mean, that’s if you still have hands—”

“Enough!You are the single most annoying person on Earth, Stark, and I hope some nut job from another dimension puts a serious hurt on you.I’ll drop the charges, just _get your ass down to Tennessee!”_

The call ended abruptly.Tony dropped the phone on the bed like he was dropping a microphone.He felt energized. He didn’t hesitate to be as annoying as possible with Ross, but he had never made a serious demand until today.

They called him because they were too scared to investigate things like this themselves.So why shouldn’t he make demands?He wasn’t powerless in this situation, though he had been acting like it.

The time for pleasing everyone had passed.He could grudgingly admit that maybe that time had never existed at all, because pleasing everyone was impossible.And cooperating with Ross now felt strangely like betrayal, like he was a loyalist in the revolution, or worse, a policeman in the ghetto with a Nazi pulling his strings.He didn’t think Ross was Hydra; more likely just a mean son of a bitch, but it was clear where he stood on people like The Avengers. 

_If we don’t do this now it will be done to us._ How careless a statement, and how deeply naive he was to believe it wouldn’t come to that.It was only now that he could understand what that must have sounded like to Steve.Only now that he bothered to consider the world Steve was from, the things he had seen.

He wouldn’t be the one to put the noose around their necks for Ross to tighten as he pleased.Not anymore.He hated to admit that he was wrong about anything - character flaw - but in this case, the safest hands _were_ still their own.It was about time that Tony used his brain to start running circles around Ross instead of himself. 

Tony swung his legs out of bed and contemplated a cup of coffee before heading for Tennessee.If it was Thor, he owed it to him to explain the current situation.He had been gone quite a while and he didn’t want him to walk into anything without the proper information.

He gulped down an espresso, summoned a suit, and sped off into the night.

 

Past a certain point, the mountains took over; there was _nothing_ to be found except trees and rock.If there were structures out here they were off the grid.He had seen exactly two cabins, and they were dark with no cars outside of them.The espresso had not fortified him enough to tolerate this.

Oh, look, there were _three_ cabins up here.The third was big, clearly a vacation home for someone with money since the cost of tying into the grid was high this far out.He wasn’t sure he understood the point of being in the wild with all the creature comforts; did you really have to come all the way out here to watch Downton Abbey?

There were three cars outside this cabin.One with New York plates, one Maryland, one Tennessee.Tennessee was a rental.Maryland was registered to a Joellen Beardsley of Frostburg.New York belonged to Hamid Sharif, dentist, resident of Boerum Hill.It must be nice, he thought, to have people willing to drive eight or ten hours to see you for a holiday.

As with the other two cabins, he gave the area a brief once over to see if there were any oddities, but he found nothing.The cabin itself remained dark and silent.There was a strange urge within him to look in, to lay eyes on normal people who slumbered in relative contentment after eating their weight in turkey and stuffing with the people they loved most around the table.Of course that would be creepy and maybe a little pathetic, so he stayed where he was, about forty yards off.

There were a lot of windows in the place, and from his position he could see the outline of a couple curled together on the living room floor, blankets high about their faces.A blond and a brunette.Not only did the folks who lived here have family willing to drive an entire standard workday to visit them, but they had family willing to sleep on the floor once they arrived.

Just then, the brunette moved.Wait.Correction, the _brunet_.It was two men huddled together in the nest of blankets, and the brunet sat straight up like in a horror movie but slower, and he turned his head and _looked right at him._

His breath caught.For a crazed second Tony thought he saw metal, but no, there was only skin, and he had to stop this, the Winter Soldier was _not_ camping out on someone’s living room floor.Last he’d heard from Natasha, he was in cryo-freeze; she only told him that under threat of death if he ever told Steve or made any attempt to find Barnes.The lines were drawn in the sand and he knew she would try her damnedest to make good on her threats if he spat in the face of her goodwill. 

There was more than one man in the world with long dark hair and light eyes and five o’clock shadow.But Tony couldn’t shake the feeling that he was pinned in his gaze, that he wasn’t even wearing a suit.He was naked there, caught and cornered, even though the suit was in stealth mode and no one could possibly see him.

“Friday,” he said.“System status?”

“All systems normal, boss.”

“Stealth mode?”

“Within optimal parameters.”

_Then why the hell can this guy see me?_

As he thought it, the man eased back down into the blankets, turned his back to the window, and settled in.Left shoulder on full display.Only skin.

Maybe he imagined it; maybe the man was just looking in his general direction and Tony happened to have seen him waking from a nightmare in a perfect alignment of coincidences.Stranger things had happened.

“Go home, Tony, you’re losing it,” he whispered.

“Boss?”

“Thor’s not here.I don’t know what caused that aurora, probably swamp gases or something.Isn’t that what NASA always says?Swamp gas?Weather balloon?I’m delirious.Let’s go home.”

And with that, Friday engaged the propulsion, low at first, and he nudged the burner on his right hand so he could turn over.He glided over the Great Smoky Mountains on his back, adrift in an ocean of stars.He was asleep before they hit West Virginia.

 

Bucky lay with his back to the window, eyes wide open, gun cradled to his chest.He stared at Steve’s sleeping face and willed the tension from his body.Willed himself not to look like a violin string too tightly wound, on the edge of snapping.

But he was.How the _fuck_ was he out there?How did Stark know where to find them?

His suit made noises, little hums of machinery or energy much like his own arm, and once something was wielded against him Bucky never forgot it.The sound tore him from sleep.He kept still until he was absolutely sure and thanked whatever it was he was supposed to believe in that the blanket was up high enough to cover his arm.With a measured movement he activated the hologram and reached into one of the compartments inside the arm for the gun.T’Challa had been open to suggestions for improving his prosthesis, and this was one of them; in the forearm he could store an assortment of blades and other odds and ends, and in the upper arm there was just enough room for a small handgun.

Steve would tell him to be still if he was awake, to play possum, but he couldn’t.He couldn’t let Stark think he could catch them unaware.There wasn’t much he could do with the gun if Stark decided to attack, except maybe use the element of surprise to fire off one vibranium-coated round into the glowing chest piece that powered the suit.

He sat up, heart pounding, and looked out the window.He couldn’t see Stark, but he knew he was there, a little ways off in the ridgeline.Hovering.

What was he _doing?_  

Bucky held his position.He wouldn’t be intimidated, though there was a dark fear clawing inside him - the fear of every kind of shackle, of being subject to the whims of others again.There was something else, though: the realization that Stark had not attacked.

He knew that feeling, same as he knew Wanda’s fear.He’d felt it a hundred times in those months that Steve trailed him, when he could see Steve but Steve couldn’t see him.The encompassing uncertainty, the long minutes of cost-benefit analysis, the pound of thought—

_Kill him kill him he won’t stop following you he doesn’t know what you are he doesn’t understand you’re dangerous, I’m dangerous, what the fuck is wrong with you, Steve, how much more obvious do I have to get, do I have to hold a gun to your head?But what if he can help?What if he really wants to help?There is no help for you, the only help is staying away, staying where they can’t see you, they only want to use you like the others and you’re done with that, done, done, DONE—_

And his left arm would twitch, torn between the impulse to destroy or reach out.

It twitched now.

Suddenly he knew that if Stark approached he had to go out there to meet him, try to talk.Steve didn’t want them to fight.He didn’t want anyone to fight if they didn’t have to.It overrode everything that dwelled inside him and that felt like being pulled out of his skin, but he had murdered the man’s parents, at least one of which he _knew -_ and he recalled a flash of young Howard, so smart but as yet untainted by _how_ smart.

He had killed Tony’s parents and his reaction was normal, understandable.If someone had killed his Ma, Bucky would be just the same.The raw, knee-jerk part of him, so long in charge, only understood self-preservation.But this was part of learning to be someone again.Slowing himself down, remembering the gray area.That problems could be solved without bullets or fists.

Sitting there in the silence of witching hour, he understood something else.Stark was unsure.Doubting.He didn’t know what he wanted.There was no attack coming, not tonight.

Bucky made himself burrow back into the blankets, shaking with the effort of turning his back to an enemy.He laid there, gun in hand, until Steve opened his eyes.Those perfect blue eyes that saw right through him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving Part II: the meeting of the minds results in some disturbing theories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick heads-up that I also posted on my other story: I'm getting married in 2 weeks and my brain is mush so updates will be slow or non-existent until early May. Thanks for your patience!

Waking was not something she wanted to be doing at present, but Natasha’s phone was ringing with a persistence that told her it shouldn’t be ignored.With a groan she reached for it.

“Hello?”Her voice was rough; she needed water.

“Did I wake you up?I totally woke you up.”

“Yes, Tony, you did.”She glanced over at Sam; he was still dead asleep, and probably would be for quite a while.“What’s up?”

“I need you to be on the lookout for Thor.”

“Thor?Why?”She got up as quietly as she could and slipped into her underwear and Sam’s shirt.She padded out to the common area.Steve was gone, probably out running, and James was curled in a ball on the couch.His toes were sticking out from under a small fleece blanket.A part of her wanted to cover them, but she knew that any disturbance of the blanket would wake him.He was wired like her.

“Got a call from Ross last night about an unexplained incidence of the Northern Lights over Tennessee.I investigated but didn’t find anything.I don’t think it was him but I realized he has no idea what’s happened here on - what does he call it?”

“Midgard,” she supplied, keeping her voice even and uninterested as she stepped outside onto the deck and closed the door behind her.Of course someone had noticed Wanda’s light show.Was Tony fucking with her, testing her to see if she would lie?Or had they really dodged the proverbial bullet? 

“Yes.Midgard.Someone should probably be ready to fill him in next time he comes around.” 

“That’s a good idea.”She frowned.Through all of this she had not thought of Thor much; out of sight, out of mind.“He might take this hard.You know how he is about brotherhood and camaraderie among warriors.”

“Something tells me he’ll understand, after all the drama with Loki.”Tony cleared his throat and did a passable imitation of Thor.“Brothers in arms will quarrel, my friends, but we shall yet share mead at the table of justice.”

“That was good.Really, it was.I’ll keep my eyes open for large Norsemen.”She rolled the sole of her foot on a pinecone; they were sore from her stilettos.“How was your Thanksgiving?”

“Not horrible.Pepper and Rhodey came over, but then that scumbag Ross called and made me do the Tennessee thing.Waste of time.”There was an uncharacteristic pause, and then he said, “Hey, Romanov, I know we agreed not to talk about this, but I have to ask.Is Barnes still a popsicle?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, so that it wasn’t fully a lie.“But the person who would is just a phone call away.”

“I can’t ask him that.”

“Why not?”

“You know, I still don’t think I’ve met anyone in the world with balls as big as yours, Natasha.”

She smiled.“That’s sweet, Tony.”

“I have my moments.”

“Few and far between.”

“All right.I don’t have to take this abuse.Go back to sleep.”

“You should, too.Sounds like you had a late night.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he said, overdramatic, and she just knew he’d started the morning with a hell of a Bloody Mary and not much else.It was 8:14 am. 

“Goodbye,” she said, and hung up to the sound of him chuckling.It was just as well, because not twenty seconds later Steve came into view.Upon noticing her on the deck, he detoured from the front door and took the wooden steps two at a time.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, giving her a once-over.He didn’t pretend not to see her nipples peaked against Sam’s shirt or the goosebumps on her legs, and that made her strangely happy. 

“A little.”

“Pants help.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Steve smiled.“Things good with Sam?”He meant it on every level the question could be interpreted.

“Very good.”

“I’m glad.”His face grew more serious, morphing into _that look_ , the one that always made people want to follow him.“Don’t break his heart, Nat.”

She stared at him, surprised and a little prickly.“Are you doing the warning speech right now, Rogers?”

“I’m not sure what that is.I’m just asking you to take it seriously.”

“What about him?” she demanded, more bothered than she should have been.“Are you going to tell Sam to take it seriously?Or is he the only one worth worrying about?”

“Nat, stop.That’s not what I mean.”He took hold of her hands and he was so _warm_.“I’m going to talk to Sam, too.I want you both to be happy.That’s all.”

She pulled her hands away, feeling awkward and strange and _loved -_ wholly unfamiliar _._ “We’re adults, Steve.We don’t need a chaperone.Besides, no matter how good your intentions are when you start something, you can still end up hurting each other down the road.”

He looked at her, silent but knowing, and she could see for the first time how he had grown from everything he’d been through.For a long time he was treading water; now he was climbing out of the pool.The world was no gentler than before but he had the strength to face it.

She hadn’t, after the strangeness with Banner.Just like Tony, enveloped in guilt, wanting to deny what was right in front of her, she made some mistakes.She should have known when Clint got involved.Should have known she made the wrong call on both Barnes and the Accords.She wasn’t prideful enough to hold onto it with alligator jaws like Tony, at least.

“I get it,” Steve said at last, voice quiet, exposed.“Believe me, I do.Wanting something and being too afraid to really try for it.It’s no way to live.”He could have said more, a _lot_ more, but he didn’t because he knew her.

It hit her then, how much she actually _loved_ this idiot, in the way you loved an exasperating sibling who sometimes made you want to kill them but for whom you would kill.He offered his arms and she leaned into them.Steve was sweaty but it didn’t matter because he was a great fucking hugger, the kind who wasn’t afraid to squeeze and lift you off your feet.

“Why are you out here with no clothes on anyway?” he said, setting her back down.

“Tony called.”

Steve blew out a sigh.“Well, at least we had one day of peace.About all you can ask for on Thanksgiving, I guess.”He put his arm around her waist and reached for the sliding door.“I don’t know about you, but I need coffee.” 

“Yes, please,” she said, allowing him to herd her back inside to the warmth.

 

 

 

It was a while before the rest of the group emerged, drawn by the smell of coffee and food.Maria was first, as casual as he had ever seen her in leggings, a camisole, and fuzzy socks.Then T’Challa, fully and immaculately dressed and somehow not feeling all the wine he had consumed the night before.Next was Wanda, rock-star chic in yesterday’s eyeliner and a long messy braid, her stomach growling loud enough to compete with Steve’s.Last was Sam, who looked a little worse for the wear, caught in the part of the hangover where the desire for food and water outweighed the instinct to stay as still as possible.

Steve watched Bucky as he cooked a frittata with leftover ham and greens and repurposed some of the roasted potatoes.He hadn’t said much since dawn, when Steve woke to a face that had not seen sleep in hours and a gun nestled in the covers between them.He wasn’t ready to talk about it, whatever it was.So Steve kissed him until his muscles unwound and then did much more than that, quickly and quietly, Bucky biting down on his pillow to stifle his sounds of pleasure as they rocked together, side by side in the blankets.That had relaxed him enough to fall asleep on the couch as Steve got ready for his run. 

He was already awake and brewing coffee by the time he walked in with Natasha.He said next to nothing beyond cursory morning greetings as everyone wandered in from their beds.The thing that kept him awake last night was still gnawing at him.

They talked and laughed about nothing in particular as they ate, except Sam, who waited with desperation for his Excedrin to kick in.Once it did he was able to contribute.It felt good to play out a scene of normalcy, though they all knew they were delaying the inevitable.Sooner or later they would have to get down to business.Sooner, actually, since Maria had an almost eleven hour drive back to New York and others had planes to catch.

The group broke apart after breakfast for about a half hour, either to finish getting ready or pack or both.It was in that time that Steve purposefully drifted to the room Maria shared with Wanda.He thought more about the questions Bucky asked last night as he ran, and he wanted to be sure he was doing the right thing by bringing her into the fold.

Thankfully Wanda was otherwise occupied out on the deck, on the phone with Vision.Steve couldn’t begin to imagine what they talked about but he didn’t begrudge them the connection.Wanda was lonely after the loss of her brother and Viz was…well, Viz.He was still mastering the nuances of human communication and wasn’t for everyone.

“Oh, hey!” Maria said, aware that he was lurking at her door.“I’m glad you’re here, I brought some things for you from New York.I thought, what would two Brooklyn boys really want?”She pulled a grocery bag out from behind her duffel.It was full to the brim.

“Maria, you really didn’t have to,” he said, stunned at her thoughtfulness. 

She waved a hand at him and pulled a slouchy sweater over her camisole.“Thanks for having me over.I haven’t eaten like that in years.I’m not a good cook.”

“All Bucky,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe.“You could probably tell from my dramatic entrance that I had no idea you were coming.”

She smiled, but was kind enough not to poke fun at him.

“You hear from Nick lately?”

“Not for a month or two.Still hunting Hydra rejects, as far as I know.” 

She said it casually, as if it wasn’t unusual for them to go that long without speaking.Three years ago they could practically communicate via telepathy.He risked being both tactless and presumptuous with his next question.

“Is it…over?”

Maria snorted.“Steve, I don’t know if it ever began.”There was a note of sadness in her voice, but mostly she sounded relieved.“I know what you’re really asking.I came here because I wanted to see you, but also because I wanted to help.I have connections and I can keep an eye on Stark for you.There’s no other agenda and it sure as hell isn’t any of Nick Fury’s business.”He opened his mouth to apologize and she cut him off with, “Don’t you _dare_ apologize.You’re finally getting smart enough to be suspicious.”

“I was always suspicious,” he said, “but optimistic.”

“World beats that outta you,” she muttered, crossing her arms.He sometimes forgot that she was a veteran, too - that she had seen many things, both in the Army and SHIELD, that made them more alike than different.

“Sure does.But I was right about you.”

“Oh, shut up, Rogers.”But she smiled even as she rolled her eyes.

 

 

 

“So…commence meeting?” Natasha said, because no one else wanted to speak once they had reassembled in the living room.

“Yes,” T’Challa said.“James?”

Bucky slouched on the couch next to Steve, arms crossed.Steve reached out to squeeze his knee.He sighed and then straightened up, bringing his legs under him into Indian style and angling himself toward Steve.

“Assuming everyone is up to speed,” he said, glancing around, “we’re here to talk about the last step.”His voice was confident but his hands were restless, fidgeting, the plates in his arm shifting with a rare hydraulic hiss.“First I want to say thank you.I’m still not sure I deserve any of this.”He held up his right hand to quiet people when they started to contradict him.“I think I’ve made some progress on number ten but nobody is going to like it.So I’m just going to come right out and say it.Steve, number ten has something to do with you.” 

And his face did exactly what Bucky imagined it would; it blanched in horror, assuming blame without even asking questions.It made him feel sick.Why was Steve like this?

He looked into his eyes, tried to pull him away from the spiral of needless guilt. 

“Do you remember the night I scared you?”

“Not easily forgotten, Buck,” Steve muttered, voice weak.

“While I was out I was trying to understand why you were being so _weird,_ and I thought about how I would feel if our situation was reversed.Then I had a panic attack and passed out in the middle of the street.”

“ _What?_ ” Steve gasped. 

“I couldn’t breathe.The thought of you…”and he had to stop, look up at the ceiling and breathe, because he was beginning to see spots.“A nice man named Lenny found me.I was… _really_ out of sorts, but he was…so fucking _nice_ and… _stupid_ , he wanted to bring me back to his house to feed me and make sure I was all right, and all I could think about was snapping necks.”

“So you came back and scared the shit out of me instead,” Steve said, flat but relieved.

“Yeah.Sorry.”

“I survived,” he said drily.

“So you think it is not Steve himself, but something to do with Steve going through what you have?” T’Challa said.

Bucky nodded.“There have been other incidents.Same trigger.”

Steve was thinking now, brow furrowed.“When I found you out here on the kitchen floor?”

“Yeah.”

“This morning?” 

“No.That was something else.”He reached for Steve’s hand nervously and said, “Grand Central?”

It took him a moment, but realization dawned in his eyes.It was a reference back to Steve’s statement that he would have kissed Bucky in Grand Central Station in 1940 and would do the same today.He knew what Bucky was asking.Steve swallowed heavily, and then nodded.

“There’s only been one incident that doesn’t fit.By far the worst.”

“What do you mean?”Natasha asked.

“I regressed.A year, at least.It set me right back to Bucharest.”

Her eyes flickered to Steve, and she was unable to hide her dismay.“What happened?”

To everyone’s surprise, including Bucky’s, Steve was the one who answered.

“We were…ah… _experimenting._ With breath play.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Natasha said.

“Wait,” Sam interjected.“At the risk of sounding _really_ ignorant, what the hell is that?”

“Erotic asphyxiation,” Natasha answered succinctly.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sam echoed, and there were several raised eyebrows among the group.

“Not you,” she said to Bucky specifically, face crimped with worry, and he knew why.A great deal of the torture for the second trigger involved near-drowning.

“No,” Bucky said.He tilted his head toward Steve, who looked for all the world like he wanted to disappear into the couch cushions.“It was fine.It was _great,_ actually.But I woke up in the middle of the night and didn’t remember the last year.”

“This is what you meant.”She was talking to Steve now.“Jesus, Steve.Why didn’t you _say_ something?”

“I came back,” Bucky said.“It was only…” he looked at Steve, who still had a hand over his face and a blush up to his hairline.“Twenty minutes?”

“Forty-seven,” Steve said, voice muffled.“And I _did_ say something, Nat, I called you.I even spoke bad Russian.”

“What?” Bucky asked.

“You said something in Russian and I asked her what it meant.I kind of already knew, though.”

She repeated the words Steve had asked her to translate and Bucky sighed.“Once I came back I didn’t remember being gone, or what triggered it.So that’s where we are.”

There was a silence. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sam said.“You thought Steve was dead.They _told_ you Steve was dead.Why would they use him for any part of it?Can’t do any harm to a dead man.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” Bucky replied.“I don’t understand it.But any time I think about Steve becoming like me, I lose it.”

“Well, we all know Steve wasn’t actually dead,” Maria spoke up.

“Nobody knew that until 2011,” T’Challa said.

Maria opened her mouth, and then closed it.There was a look on her face…and every alarm Bucky had went off.

“Maria?” Steve said.All trace of a blush on his face had faded, and he leaned forward.

She looked at her hands and said nothing for a long minute.Then she lifted her chin and met Steve’s eyes.“When we found you, it was like…you were lying in state.Just on your back in the cockpit.Could’ve been napping.What I’m saying is, you didn’t look like you were in a plane crash.No trauma, no blood.I mean, you and I both know what people look like after a crash.We all do.”

There were nods among the group.Bucky was already feeling as if his chest was being squeezed.

“But didn’t he have seventy years to heal?” Wanda asked.

This one Bucky could answer.“No.Freezing disrupts biological processes.It’s why I still look young.My cells didn’t age while I was frozen.And if I got a cut or a bruise on a mission, it was still there when I thawed out the next time.Steve’s body wouldn’t have healed if he was frozen, same as mine.”

“That’s why Nick was suspicious.If Steve didn’t sustain any injuries in the crash why lay there and freeze?And if he did get hurt, how would he have healed if he was frozen?”

“Just because it’s the Arctic doesn’t mean it never gets above freezing,” Sam said.“Would that be enough?”

“The plane was embedded in permafrost.It took seventy years and global warming to erode enough to make the plane visible, and we have logs of the weather for all that time.It only reached fifty degrees once or twice a year, at most, and some years not at all.All science says Steve should basically have been mummified, exactly how he was on or shortly after impact.” 

“Haven’t people survived with a body temperature as low as 55 Fahrenheit?” T’Challa asked.“We still don’t fully comprehend what Steve or James’s bodies can withstand.They may stay functional at a much lower temperature than others.Maybe he was healing, slowly, over the decades.”

Maria shrugged.“No one knows.And that is exactly why Nick felt a need to tread carefully when it came to waking you up, Steve.”

“I understand,” Steve nodded.Bucky could see him working through things in his head, taking emotions as they came and trying to shelve them for a later time.He put on a good show but now Bucky knew all the tells.

“I’m sorry to say this, Steve, but we kept you sedated for almost three months after pulling you out of the ice.We knew of the Winter Soldier at that time and Nick was convinced it could have been you.The way you looked when we pulled you out, and wouldn’t Hydra just have loved that, if they found you before us and…” she bit her lips, realizing she was about to say the very thing that had already proven to make Bucky lose control.“There was also a partial print on the shield that wasn’t yours.”

“Whose?” Steve and Bucky asked at the same time. 

“No hit in the database.It goes without saying that anyone on site when you were found and extracted, _anyone_ , was in the database.”

“I’m not the only person who ever touched the shield.It could have been Schmidt, any of the Commandos, hell, it could have been Peggy or Howard or _anyone,”_ Steve said.

“Exactly.That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Steve, it could have been anyone.Even Hydra.”Maria struggled for the right words.“Look, I will be the first person to admit that Nick Fury is paranoid, sometimes to the point of insanity, but he wasn’t wrong.There were too many question marks.”

“Then why did you ever wake me up?”

“Because the Winter Soldier was sighted multiple times everywhere that the Arab Spring took hold.Egypt, Libya, Syria, like clockwork, and every single eyewitness said he had a metal arm.Obviously you’re missing that bit of hardware, and you couldn’t be there if you were in a bed in SHIELD HQ under video surveillance.” 

“So all those questions and you just said fuck it, he’s not the guy we thought he was so he must be _fine_ ,” Steve said through his teeth.He was cracking, and Bucky couldn’t do anything to help; he had schooled himself into numbness five minutes ago so that _he_ wouldn't have a complete meltdown.

“No,” Maria said.“You built up a tolerance for the sedative and there wasn’t anything stronger.You woke up on your own and we did the best we could to try to control the situation.”

There was a silence; no one knew what to say.It was Steve who broke it, voice hard and betrayed.

“I’m surprised Nick didn't just put a bullet in my head.I’ll bet it’s what he wanted.”

“That’s enough,” Natasha spoke up, in a tone that brooked no argument.“We need a break.”

 

 

 

Natasha and Sam went out onto the deck with Steve, and Wanda and T’Challa stayed with Bucky in the living room.Maria went to the bathroom and rubbed her temples, hoping it would alleviate the pounding headache that was building there.But, like many things, it was not to be.

 

 

 

“Did you know about this?”

She knew he would ask because they had played this game before.She also knew that this far into their friendship, he would know if she lied. 

“I knew they kept you sedated for a while,” Natasha said.“None of the other things.”

Every cell in Steve’s body seemed irritated.He leaned his elbows on the railing and put his hands over his face.

“I can’t even be dead in peace.”

“It could be nothing, Steve,” Sam said.“Maria said it herself.Just because there’s a question doesn’t mean the answer is horrible.It could be nothing at all, and you just healed because you’re you, and it’s a random nobody from 1945 that put that print on your shield.”

Steve shook his head slowly.

“I remember the impact,” he said.“I couldn’t tell the earth and water and sky apart because of the sun glare, so I had no idea when I would hit and I just kept talking to Peggy so I could pretend I wasn’t afraid, and then I hit and… _Jesus_ , you think you have an idea of what pain is.”Steve leaned back, looked up at a cloudless blue sky.“I don’t know how long I stayed conscious, could’ve been ten seconds or ten hours, but I _definitely_ wasn't okay.Not by a long shot.” 

Natasha exchanged a glance with Sam, who looked stricken.She would bet that they were thinking the same thing.No one ever asked Steve about the crash, assuming he had been knocked unconscious on impact.This was the first time he was talking to anyone about it, and he was telling them in no uncertain terms that he suffered.

“And the worst part?My last thought was that this must have been what it felt like for Bucky when he died.When I _let him die_.Maybe I could have woken up before I froze.Called for help or dragged myself somewhere.I don't know.What I do know is that I never wanted to wake up.Especially not to _this_.”

“Steve…” Sam began, but for once, he didn’t know the right words for the situation.He settled for, “I’m sorry.”

He heaved a sigh and waved a hand in a tired gesture.“I’m the one who crashed the plane.It’s not anyone’s fault I couldn’t do it well enough to kill myself.I’m starting to think decapitation is the only way.”

“Come on, man.” 

“You come on, Sam.Do you understand what Maria is saying?Now I have to be afraid every day of my life that maybe someone did things to me when I was under, and those things will make me hurt someone.” 

Natasha listened to them argue, but really there was no argument.They had no way to know whether Steve had healed on his own or not; his freezing would have been less consistent than Barnes’s, and temperatures above freezing could have awakened his body enough to start putting itself back together, but…

But he was _entombed_ in that plane.Buried in permafrost.She couldn’t help but think that Maria was right - that the science said conditions inside that ship were consistent enough for mummification.Cold, dry, a perfect insulated microcosm beneath the ice.Steve’s cells should have stopped just as they were and not kickstarted again until he began the slow thaw on the ship out.He should have looked exactly as he did when he finally lost consciousness after impact.

Dread coiled in her stomach.Maybe Howard Stark had looked for Steve for three straight years and failed to find him because he wasn’t there to be found.Maybe Hydra _had_ gotten to Steve first and there was very good reason for the fear that bound James to the Winter Soldier.Maybe one day someone would utter a few random words in Russian and _Steve’s_ eyes would go blank.

Natasha sat down on the lounge chair, legs rubbery, mind lost in terrible possibilities.

 

 

 

He was sitting on the floor, back to the couch, holding on to Wanda’s hands as she sat across from him.He tried to count the flecks of glitter in her dark nail polish to occupy his mind.It wasn’t working.The panic was building, clawing around his ribcage like a wild bird, and his lungs just didn’t want to work because what had once seemed far-fetched was now within the realm of possibility, and, God, _not Steve, please…_

There was no air.Wanda’s eyes went wide, full of concern.T’Challa knelt down next to her and they were both speaking but he couldn’t hear them.Words didn’t make sense.Neither did anything else, a moment later, because it all went black like it had in Detroit.

 

 

 

When he came to he was in bed.The door to the bedroom was open and he could hear the murmur of conversation, if not what was actually being said.The light in the room was fading; nearly sunset.It was before noon when they sat down earlier.

The panic was gone.In its place was a fragile resolve.So what if there was actually something to his fear?He wasn’t going to give Steve up, nor was he going to stop trying to get Hydra out of his head.So he would be afraid, pass out, sometimes lose his memory…but as long as he had Steve he would come back and be strong enough to fight.The alternative was worse.

Bucky sat up and took a shaky breath.Then he walked back out to the living room, trying to pretend at the kind of bravery that came naturally to Steve.There were plans to be made.He couldn’t sit this one out, no matter how much the implications of that morning’s conversation frightened him.

When he emerged, the talking stopped.All eyes were on him.Without preamble, Steve got up from his seat and wrapped him in his arms.He was so solid, so _sure_.He had always felt that way, even when he was skin and bones.

There against his chest, enveloped in his smell and his warmth and the thoughts of this person he had loved since he could first understand what that meant, his courage evaporated.Emotions began to cascade one after the other; he felt like there were bricks tied to his ankles and the only thing that kept him from plunging into the depths was Steve.His hands fisted in the back of Steve’s shirt.

This was what bravery got him; he was overwhelmed.The kind of overwhelmed he had talked about with Wanda.The kind that made him crazy. 

Steve felt it, because he kissed him on the forehead and then hard on the lips - _come back to me -_ and all of a sudden he was either going to shoot someone or tear Steve’s clothes off.He knew which one was more acceptable, though only marginally when there were five other people in the room.

Even so, he couldn’t stop himself.He clung to Steve, locking his legs around his hips, inarticulate sounds escaping him.Steve understood.He slid his hands beneath Bucky’s thighs and then walked him right back to the bedroom.He shut the door behind them with his foot.Then Bucky was on his back on the bed, Steve’s lips scoring his neck.

“Please,” he begged, skull cracking from the inside from the force of everything that quivered there.“I need…”

“I know what you need,” Steve said softly.

 

 

 

“Okay,” Natasha said, as if they had not all just witnessed that nuclear bomb of sexual energy.“Everybody out.We’re going into town.” 

Nobody argued.They piled into Maria’s SUV and drove into Gatlinburg, where they had a lovely Italian dinner.Two hours later they returned with takeout boxes in tow for Steve and James even though there was an entire shelf of leftovers in the refrigerator.The ride was mostly silent; they didn’t know what to expect when they got back, or what to do with the morning’s realizations

“I didn’t realize how upset they’d get,” Maria said suddenly.“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Well, if you people had been truthful with Steve from the get-go—” Sam started.

“I wasn’t in charge.And what would you have done?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, frustration evident.

“We can’t change what has already happened,” T’Challa said, ever the voice of reason.“Maria, you spoke up with the intent to help, not harm.Both Steve and James know that.And is this not why we met?To find a way forward?”

“What way?” Sam asked.“Where would we even begin?”

“We have to retrace our steps,” Natasha said.“The answers are there.They have to be.”

“Nat, you know that Nick is thorough.If there was a solution to those problems he would have found it,” Maria said.

“Nick is good but he doesn’t know everything,” she replied.“Hydra was right under his nose.”

“Hydra was right under _all_ of our noses, yours included.”

“They know how to hide.It’s one big _matryoshka_ and we’re only on the second doll.We have to dig deeper.”

“Why not start with Zemo?” Wanda spoke up.“I have wondered, how did he get the information he needed to activate James?He knows things that we don’t.”

“You think he’d talk to us?” Sam said, doubtful.

Everyone heard the change in Wanda’s voice when next she spoke.“I can _make_ him talk to us.” 

“He’s in a maximum security prison with round-the-clock guards,” Maria said.“Even if you could make him sing, we’d never get in.Do you want to end up back in The Raft?”

“I will never go back to that place,” Wanda said.“But it seems like Zemo is the only lead we have.”

“Wanda is right,” T’Challa said.“We have to start somewhere.Perhaps they would grant me visitation.”

“You?” Sam said.“You publicly vowed revenge for the death of your father.They’d never let you in.”

“They might.I am a King, after all.Someone that Europol might want to appease.Especially if I come with a message of forgiveness.Makes for good press.”

“Say you pull it off, get in there.You can’t ask him the kinds of questions we need answered in front of cameras,” Maria said.

“Then maybe we need to get in and get out,” T’Challa said.“If you take my meaning.If Zemo could do it, surely we can.We are a very talented bunch.”

“If you do that, T’Challa, you’re declaring for our side.You can’t fly under the radar anymore.I respect your desire to help but you have a country to run, full of people who need you.It’s not the right move,” Natasha said.

The car was quiet.After a long moment, he said, “I had not thought of that.”He chuckled, a wry smile on his face.“Some King.”

“It isn’t a crime to want to help a friend,” Maria said.

“Unless you’re Steve Rogers,” Sam muttered.

“We’ll think of something.”

“Yes,” Natasha seconded.“We will.”

The conversation lulled, but it was only a few more minutes to the house.As they piled out of the car, Natasha felt Wanda’s hand on her arm.She stayed back, pretending to look for a lost earring, until the others were out of earshot.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There are many Sokovians who would like to see Zemo dead.Maybe we should use that to our advantage.”

Finally, someone who spoke her language.There was just one problem.

“Zemo isn’t afraid to die.”

“Not by his own hand,” Wanda said.“That is quick and easy.But he was a dealer of death.He knows what can be done, and how slowly it can go.Without those prison walls he will be afraid.” 

“You’re scaring _me_ a little,” Natasha joked. 

“Pietro used to say: pretty face, ugly thoughts.”Wanda smiled, her love for her brother warming her face.

“Smart man.”Natasha’s eyes flashed toward the house; Sam was waiting for them near the front door.“This stays between us, all right?”

“Of course,” Wanda said, the picture of tranquillity. 

 

 

 

It escaped no one’s notice that both James and Steve ate like they had not seen food in a week.Steve seemed to have recovered from the day’s emotional rigors, though they all knew he was a little too good at pretending.James was subdued, almost sedated.Whatever they had done behind that bedroom door worked.

Sam was the one to fill them in on their discussion in the car.They all agreed that Zemo had to be their starting point, but disagreed on how to get there.In the meantime, Maria and T’Challa were going to review the Hydra files Natasha had dumped online three years before to see if they had missed something.Natasha was in charge of expanding their pool of possible fingerprint culprits.Wanda and Sam got the lucky job of going to the crash site in the Arctic with fresh eyes. 

“What about us?” Steve asked.

“The two of you should lay low until we get some answers,” Sam said.“Think you can stand more time in this log cabin palace?”

“I think so,” Steve said mildly.He could feel Natasha’s eyes on him.She knew how he was about cities - namely that he hated not being in one - but she didn’t call him out on the lie.

“Then it’s settled.”

There were nods all around.It was late and people began to shift, ready to disengage for some much-needed sleep.Bucky had not said anything all evening, so they were surprised when he opened his mouth.

“There’s one more thing.”For a second time, all eyes were on him.He didn’t fold under their gaze this time.Bucky took a breath.“Stark was here last night.”

Natasha sat up very straight and Steve almost fell out of his chair altogether.

“ _What?”_ Steve demanded.Then he went pale.“That’s why…this morning…Bucky, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because he didn’t do anything.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it because he had no idea how to respond.Instead he turned to Natasha.

“What did he say on the phone?”

“Ross called him last night.Satellites picked up Wanda’s light show and they thought it could have been Thor.Sent Tony to investigate.He was in the area, but I swear to you, Steve, Tony didn’t say _anything_ about this place.He just said it was a waste of time.He was more concerned about Thor than anything else.Him showing up without knowing what’s happened.”

_Without knowing we’ve fallen to pieces._

Now Steve’s eyes were scourging her; friendship was a two-way street.Natasha relented.

“He…he did ask if James was still in cryofreeze.”

“How would he know he was frozen in the first place?” Steve bit off.

“I told him.I also told him I would kill him if he tried anything, and I meant it.”

“So what did you say?”

“That I didn’t know.Steve, I really don’t think he connected the dots.He was drunk, and he tells the truth when he’s drunk.”

“Right.One of the smartest men in the world _didn’t connect the dots._ ”Steve looked like he wanted to punch something.Then he frowned. _“_ He was drunk at eight in the morning?” 

“In case you never noticed, he’s no good when he’s alone,” Natasha said.“Kind of like you.”

“Damn,” Sam breathed, still not quite sure how Steve and Natasha could stay friends when they spoke so baldly to one another.It seemed to work for them.Steve got up and paced, mostly to dissipate the sting of her brutal honesty. 

“Natasha,” Bucky said, voice measured, “he saw me.I had the hologram on, so maybe that threw him, but we looked right at each other.”He pointed to the window.“He was over there, just hovering.”

They all looked out into the darkness.Out here it was complete, a field of impenetrable black beyond the wooden deck rails.

“Sometimes you can look right at the truth and not want to believe it, so you don’t,” Maria spoke up softly.“Doesn’t matter how smart you are.”

Steve sighed, leaning against the back of one of the chairs.“In the morning, we have to go.All of us.”

 

 

 

Everyone drifted away from the table, minds full, until only Bucky and Wanda remained.Wanda had drawn her legs up so that her knees rested against the table.She twisted her rings nervously.

“It’s my fault,” Wanda said.“I drew attention to us.It was stupid.”

“It was beautiful,” Bucky responded with feeling.“And you should do it every goddamn day if you want.”He reached out for her hand and she gave it, linking their fingers together.They sat like that for a while, refusing to be uncomfortable in the intimacy of touch, until Wanda gave voice to her suspicions.

“The two of you aren’t going to lay low like Sam said, are you.”

“No.”

She squeezed his hand and then let go.

“Good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I can't be the only one to have thought, "Dude crashes a giant plane and looks like Sleeping Beauty when they pull him out of the ice? I don't think so." I suppose they keep blood to a minimum for their ratings, and that we rarely get realistic depictions of trauma in any form of media entertainment, but come on. I do work with trauma victims quite frequently and even tripping over your own feet can result in some gnarly cuts and bruises, let alone crashing any kind of vehicle at speed while unrestrained. Physics, people! 
> 
> As you can tell, I decided to be spiteful about the total cop-out in Steve's brief thawing scene and use it for my plot. I apologize for nothing! ;)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes, and lines of communication are opened with mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for this!

Natasha was unsettled, and her feet took her to Steve.He stood at the bathroom sink with his toothbrush in hand.He went about his routine, but she knew from the tension in his shoulders that he felt her there.She stepped forward and nudged his t-shirt up his back.He had winced earlier when Maria hugged him and now she knew why; there were fingernail gouges red and raised all down his left side.

“This happen often?”

“Once in a while,” he murmured.“They’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“He’s okay?”

Steve met her gaze in the mirror.“What is this ‘okay’ that you keep referring to?”

Natasha smiled and reached for the doorknob.She closed the door softly.Steve turned toward her, eyes questioning.

“I wanted to say…about the breath play thing…if you needed that, you could have just asked.”

He contemplated her, and for once he acknowledged the fine line they sometimes walked.He pushed a lock of hair out of her face, touch lingering, and it felt _good_.She had always been attracted to him, not just for his obvious physical charms, but because he was one of the only men she had ever met who seemed completely immune to her.He wasn’t - she knew that now - but he was so goddamn proper, and the knowledge that he got off on being strangled in bed did something to her. 

“If I had known,” he said, voice low, “I might have.”

“That was the first time?”

He nodded.“One and done, I guess.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

She pouted.“Offer stands.I think Sir Scratch-A-Lot would understand.”

“Sir Scratch-A-Lot would insist on doing it himself if he thought I wanted it.” 

“You do want it.”

“And you just slept with my other best friend last night, so you’re off limits,” Steve said sharply.

She thought for a moment, eyes narrowed.That was a conundrum.“What if Sam agreed?”

“Nat,” he said, with an exasperated shake of his head.“Give it up.”

“I can’t.You deserve the things that make you feel good.”His expression softened and Natasha saw her opening. “Think about it,” she said.

“I’m not thinking about it.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.You shouldn’t be, either.”

“I know,” she admitted.“But there’s just something about you and kink in the same sentence that gets me hot and bothered.”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t spent all your time trying to set me up with someone else…”

“Well, maybe if _you_ had made it known that you had a pulse…”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips.“All right, that’s enough.If you’re hot and bothered there’s a guy named Sam a few doors down who can help you with that.”

He brushed past and left her to her sinful thoughts, but not without a light kiss to the temple. 

 

 

 

That night he dreamed of Natasha pressed naked against his back, her garrote tightened around his neck so he could only get the slightest trickle of air into his lungs, while Bucky sucked him off.He was so hard when he woke up that it was uncomfortable.

“Damn it,” he murmured.

“Hm?” Bucky asked, bleary.

“Nothing.Go back to sleep.”

“Mm.”Bucky shifted closer to him, his movements causing unintentional stimulation, and Steve had to bite his lips.Bucky was quiet for a few minutes and he thought maybe he fell asleep, but then:

“Need me to take care of that?”His foot slid between Steve’s, rubbing a comforting rhythm along his ankle.He was awake.

“Yes,” he said, relieved.

Bucky ducked beneath the blankets with wild morning hair and a smile. 

 

 

 

“That everything?”

“I think so.”

Once again, they had condensed their lives down to a few bags.The house was spotless, the fridge emptied, lights off and unnecessary appliances unplugged.Delia had not yet responded to Bucky’s text that they were leaving, but it was still early.

“Wait, Steve…your paintings.”

He shrugged.“They’re not exactly portable.It’s okay.”

Bucky couldn’t control a crestfallen look.Steve brushed some hair out of his face and Bucky leaned into his hand.

“They should be in a gallery,” Bucky said.“They’re good.Too good to sit in someone’s vacation home where no one can look at them.”

“I didn’t paint them so people would look at them.I know this won’t make much sense, but sometimes it’s less about the finished piece than it is about creating it.”

“It makes sense.I just wish people could know how brilliant you are.”

“You know how brilliant I am.”Steve smiled.“That’s enough for me.”

 

 

 

Bucky didn’t really know why leaving the paintings behind felt like a loss.But it did, and it bothered him.So did Steve’s insistence that his admiration was all he needed.He deserved so much more and would never think to ask for it.That hadn’t changed at all.

Steve took the first leg of driving.It was a long trip to South Dakota, and as the scenery flew by, Bucky realized it felt good to be in motion.The others would be upset that they didn’t just find another safe house, but once Steve made up his mind he would not be sidelined.Neither would Bucky.If he wanted to do penance, he couldn’t accomplish much from the couch.

He dozed off as they came down out of the Appalachians.When he woke, the world was flat.Bucky brought the seat back up and rubbed his eyes.

“Where are we?”

“About an hour outside St. Louis.We either have to switch or stop.”Steve yawned and blinked several times.“And eat.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He shrugged.There was a rest stop coming up, and a few miles later Steve took the exit.After stretching their legs, they sat on the curb by the car and ate leftover ham sandwiches Bucky had packed.

“What’re you going to say?” Bucky asked with his mouth full.Since it was on their route, Steve fully intended to stop in Ferguson and speak to the family of Michael Brown.

“I don’t know,” Steve said.“I usually think of something.But this might be a case where listening is more valuable.”

 

 

 

Steve was right.Neither of them had to say much, and when they did Steve did most of the talking.He wasn’t just brilliant at art.When the situation called for profound words he found them. 

Bucky was the one who left Ferguson with fire in his belly.He hadn’t thought of it in a long time, but the truth was that he came from modest means and limited opportunities.Maybe not as much as Steve, but he had still lived through the Great Depression.He had seen his mother go hungry so that he and Rebecca might eat, seen the guilt in his father’s eyes when he rose each morning to work at the docks instead of go to school.Known he was lucky to even _have_ a job.Meanwhile there were people only a few miles away who had the luxury of boredom, choice, and excess while most of the city suffered.The fact that that kind of disparity still existed, and that its lines were so frequently drawn in the context of race, rankled him.

Beyond that, Bucky knew what it was like to have people lay eyes on him and assume the worst.But he had earned that reputation through action.It had nothing to do with his appearance. 

It triggered a memory of one of the worst fights he and Steve ever got in as teenagers.It was the rare day where they both came home bruised and bloodied.Back then opinions of the Irish had not run high, and he heard mutterings about Steve’s mother before.She was a young woman raising a son alone in a time where that was scandalous.People didn’t know she was a widow, that Steve had a legitimate father who died in the war before he was born.They didn’t know how wonderful Sarah Rogers had been.

He was the one who threw the first punch that day, because Steve was too shocked to do it himself.It was not their finest hour; they were outnumbered and significantly outweighed, because the kids who spouted off about playing sick so they could seduce the loose Irish nurse had a few years and a few growth spurts on them.He got bruised ribs, a chipped tooth, a bloody nose, and an assortment of colorful bruises out of that scuffle.Steve got a broken collarbone, a broken pinky, and the bloodiest non-fatal head wound Bucky had ever seen to this day.Lucky for him, it was along his eyebrow and nobody noticed the scar unless they knew to look.

It didn’t matter what Sarah Rogers did in her life; because she was Irish, marked as such by her fair skin and freckles and the lilting accent she tried to hide, the world viewed her a certain way.Promiscuous, overfond of alcohol, unreliable, sticky-fingered.She was a fantastic mother and nurse, and she should have had a better-paying job, but he didn’t kid himself that she would have been able to find one.The doors were closed.

It was the same for these young men.If they could reach the doors at all, they closed before they could even lift a hand to knock.If they knocked, the people on the other side assumed they had an ulterior motive.If they didn't knock, they were lazy.On the off chance that someone let them in, they had to work twice as hard to stay there, and always under a microscope.And it all began with one thing that was entirely outside their control: the color of their skin.

He thought of Gabe, of the patronizing or outright scornful way some soldiers treated him back then even though he was smarter and kinder than all of them.In Bucky’s mind, those qualities were the only things that mattered.He didn’t know how, in the year 2016, people still got caught up on something as silly as skin color.It was maddening.

“You’re quiet,” Steve commented.He’d noticed how Bucky was white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“I’m angry,” he replied.

“Yeah,” Steve said distantly, looking out the window at the outskirts of St. Louis.“There’s a lot to be angry about in the future.” 

 

 

 

They spent Sunday in St. Louis.Bucky had never been there and Steve barely remembered the one stop he made while peddling war bonds.Steve wanted a dose of city and Bucky wanted blues.They got both.

As usual, the beer didn’t work, but Bucky was drunk on the live music, rosy-cheeked and heavy-eyed.Steve couldn’t resist him.They missed their floor on the hotel elevator because they were kissing; a middle-aged couple that got on two floors later had to awkwardly prompt them. 

Once in their room Steve wasted no time, backing Bucky against the wall and deepening the kiss.Bucky’s hands notched into the back pockets of his jeans and pulled him forward so their hips were flush.He could feel how hard he was already, that coveted bulge trapped in his clothing.He rubbed the heel of his hand over it and reveled in Bucky’s sharp intake of breath against his lips.

Steve unbuttoned him with hands made tremulous by desire.He slid down to his knees, knowing Bucky’s eyes were on him, dark with anticipation.He freed his cock and teased his tongue along the slit before sucking the head into his mouth.He was perfect, hot silk and musk, and Steve didn’t know why he loved doing this so much but few things made him happier.

Bucky’s hands threaded into his hair as he worked his lips up and down his shaft steadily.Usually Bucky took charge, moving his hips or applying pressure, but tonight he seemed content to let Steve do whatever he wanted.He took the time to reacquaint himself with all the things that made Bucky pant and squirm and curse, and then he set to deep-throating him in earnest, until his head buzzed with the lack of oxygen.

“Steve… _fuck_ …”

Bucky tugged at his hair and he pulled back, dizzy, oblivious to anything that existed beyond the man before him.Bucky urged him to his feet, crashing their lips together, and pleasure shot through Steve as Bucky liberated him from his own clothing.He moaned into his mouth as Bucky stroked him.

“God, I love when you do that,” Bucky said into the spot below his ear, the one that always helped his id to win out.Steve knew he was being herded toward the bed.A moment later the back of his legs hit, and Bucky tumbled them down.He pulled his jacket and shirt off as he straddled Steve.Steve followed suit, and then they struggled out of shoes and pants until they were at last blissfully naked.

He loved the feeling of Bucky’s weight on top of him; it reminded him of that first time, the raw excitement, the smashing of carefully maintained boundaries.Bucky couldn’t stop himself from moving his hips and Steve dug his foot into the bed to meet him.They kissed with increasing fervor, and now Steve was the one reaching, cupping Bucky’s ass and giving himself over to lust. 

Bucky came up for air and did something surprising.He rolled off Steve and onto his back.Steve propped up on his elbow and stared at him, eyes hot.

A lazy smile lifted the corner of Bucky’s mouth.“You’d never have to fight if you just looked at everybody like that.Could be your secret weapon.”His fingers grazed over Steve’s nipple, giving a light pinch.“Come here.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. 

Afterward, lying there cradled in his arms, it was hard to believe that yesterday they were angry, or remember what there was to be angry about.

 

 

 

Delia called some time later.Steve was half-asleep, watching Bucky through weighted eyelids.Bucky was still naked, the sheets bunched at his waist, and he was so loose with relaxation that it bordered on strange.He wanted to draw him like that but wasn’t sure he could translate his placidity into lines and shapes.Definitely not right now, at any rate.

He wasn’t paying attention to whatever he and Delia talked about.At one point Bucky got up and padded over to the small desk in the room.He wrote a few things down on the hotel stationary.Then he hung up and climbed back into bed.

“You awake?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Barely.”Bucky curled into his side.“You’ll be happy to know that all charges have been dropped against the people who helped you on Election Day.Delia also said a bunch of veterans are going to Standing Rock on the 2nd to protect the protesters.She gave me some names.”

“Good,” Steve said with a sleepy smile.“‘Bout time.”

“Yeah.”Bucky stretched, and then reached for the bedside lamp to flick it off.“Gives us a few days to get up there.Don’t have to rush.”

In the dark his brain kickstarted, the exact opposite of what he wanted.For all his laxity Bucky was still awake; he didn’t seem tired. 

“People are getting shot with water cannons and rubber bullets and having dogs set on them,” Steve said.“We’re not waiting until the 2nd.”

Bucky’s fingers traced little circles on his chest.“Okay.South Dakota or bust.” 

 

 

 

They were tired when they got to Sioux Falls.It had been a long day of driving and the first time they sat in traffic, which made Bucky crazy.He was convinced that if people really had time to look at them, as they might when they were bumper to bumper on a six lane highway, they would be recognized.Steve didn’t tell him about the little boy in the Subaru next to them who stared at him with wide eyes for upwards of thirty minutes. 

It was always the kids that recognized him; in their minds there was no reason Captain America _couldn’t_ be sitting in the car next to them.Fortunately they were easy to manage.All it took was a smile, a finger to his lips, and a wink, and the boy puffed up with pride and determination.He had a secret to keep for a superhero.

Once again he was amazed at the difference a day could make.Last night Bucky had water for bones and tonight he was all tension.Steve knew it was the traffic and the car and feeling exposed.An hour of clean windows and compromised escape routes did that to him.

He went to take a shower and Steve let him be.While he was in there he checked the room, secured it the way Bucky usually did.It would make him feel better when he got out.

It did; Bucky shot him a grateful look before collapsing into the bed and disappearing into the blankets.Sometimes he just needed to be hidden.It took almost two hours, but eventually the lump in the bed that was Bucky relaxed and Steve knew he was asleep.

He wasn’t ready for bed yet.His body hummed with energy that couldn’t be spent in a car or a hotel room.With a sigh he changed into running gear and slid into his sneakers.For Bucky’s sake he took a weapon, though he knew he wouldn’t need it.

It was hovering right around freezing but there was no wind, so it felt refreshing once his blood began to pump.It was later than he thought.The streets were deserted.He passed down avenues and between buildings a silent shadow, only the puff of his breath to mark him as anything more than a ghost.

A winding and nonsensical route put enough miles on his legs to allow him to think about sleep.It was after one when he jogged back into the parking lot of the motel.He put the key in the door and didn’t flinch when the first sight to meet his eyes was Bucky sitting up in bed, gun cocked right at him. 

Bucky made an irritated noise, but lowered the gun, leaving it among the sheets.One day he was going to climb into bed and accidentally get shot.

“What is it?” Steve asked.

Bucky gestured at the television, which Steve hadn’t noticed was on.Steve closed the door behind him and sat on the end of the bed.It took a minute or two to understand what he was looking at, but his mind put the pieces together and it became clear that he was watching footage of the place they had just left - familiar mountainsides and buildings aglow with ravenous flames.

“Delia called,” Bucky said.“The cabin is probably gone.”

His mind ran through SHIELD’s disaster protocol, programmed as it was in his head - what was worthing risking lives to save?What, not who.He had always hated that, because there were more important questions.Did people get out in time?Were there frightened souls trapped with no hope of rescue?And how many would be left with nothing, come morning?

“What do they think started it?”

“People.”

Steve sighed.He remembered the unusually warm temperatures, low creeks, the brown, dry grass covered in blankets of brown, dry leaves, the fact that it had not rained for more than five minutes when they were there.The Smokies were a tinderbox.His chest hurt; in that moment he would have given anything to be back in Tennessee where he could do something to help, instead of here in Sioux Falls.Not that one man could do much against a wildfire. 

“Your paintings,” Bucky said, and he sounded so heartbroken.It was on the tip of Steve’s tongue to tell him people were what they should worry about, but he knew that Bucky knew that.For some reason he was very attached to those paintings.

“I’ll make more.”He wound his fingers into Bucky’s hair at the base of his skull and stroked a comforting rhythm against his scalp.He closed his eyes but the crease remained in his forehead between them. 

“Damn right you will,” Bucky murmured.“And everyone will see them.”

 

 

 

He was up late tinkering, the ceaseless babble of twenty four hour news on in the background, when a breaking story made him look up.The Great Smoky Mountains were on fire.Tony watched with a combination of awe and dread, and his mind kicked into overdrive.

Wildfire, where only a few days before there was an unexplained aurora?Where he thought he saw, but couldn’t _possibly_ have seen, the Winter Soldier?He had forced himself not to think about it.But this was too many oddities at once.

And there wasn’t just one man in that cabin in the mountains.There were two.A blond and a brunet. _Steve._

If there was even a chance that he wasn’t crazy, that it really _was_ them…

He had to go.

 

 

 

It was like doing a flyover of hell.The wind whipped a constant stream of smoke and hot embers into his face.There was no hope of controlling this, not with the wind gusting hurricane force, fanning the flames across acres and acres of kindling.

Tony wasn’t used to not being able to do more to help.It gnawed at him.As he neared the pocket of wilderness where the cabin stood, he made one stop to pull a couple and their toddler off their balcony as the flames closed in, and a second to rescue a chocolate lab left behind by its humans.At first he wasn't sure it was breathing, but he dropped it with the other three anyway and by the time he rocketed back into the sky its tail was thumping feebly on the ground.He was beginning to feel panicked.He wanted to help whoever he could, but that included maybe Steve, and the fire was spreading so fast - that last gust of wind was _ninety miles per hour,_ for fuck’s sake.

Past Gatlinburg there was only smoke and conflagration.The other two cabins were still abandoned, one half-chewed by fire and on its way to being destroyed.When he came up on the third he could see that the flames had just started to climb the wooden steps to the deck.

The lights were off and a scan quickly told him that there was no one here.There was nothing to say that anyone had ever been here at all.Except…

Tony crouched down, thanking himself for thinking of putting air filtration in the suit years before because the room was filling up with smoke.He tried to understand what he had found.Nine canvasses, six painted, three blank, but all numbered - an unfinished series.Each completed painting bore the initials SGR in the bottom right corner.

He flipped through them like one might a box of records.His heart almost stopped when he got to the sixth canvas.

“Boss, structural stability is compromised.Collapse imminent.”

The house was burning around him and he was looking at a painting of himself, done by Steven Grant Rogers.

 

 

 

Steve watched, heart in his throat, as the camera followed Tony.For the last hour he had been pulling people from the flames.Twenty people at least, and two dogs and three cats and some kid’s pet lizard. 

Another hour passed, and the only things Tony pulled from the ruin now were bodies.The camera caught him once as he took thirty seconds to catch his breath, face plate up.He was tired and sweaty and smeared with soot.There was a track down his left cheek.He wasn’t crying now, but he had been, probably when he found that first body.Steve knew the feeling.

_Too late._

Then, aware that the camera was on him, he snapped the face plate back in place and shot off into the maw of the night still glowing with ruinous flames.The cameras didn’t catch him again, but Steve knew he was out there.

For the first time he thought about his paintings, by now just piles of ash.He had not shown Bucky all of them.There were two, at least, that he knew would disturb him, and so he painted them at night when Bucky slept and hid them when they were done. 

He had not set out to paint his brushes with death, but that was what happened once he started.First his mother watching him burn through a high fever; he was about nine then, he thought, and maybe it was delirium but Steve swore he felt the fingers of death dancing over him before the fever broke.Then the point of no return in Brooklyn, when Erskine’s unguarded face told him that he wasn’t as sure as he pretended to be that his experiment wouldn’t flat-out kill Steve.For a short time in that chamber, he was pretty sure he _was_ dying.Then Schmidt’s plane, the new appreciation for the level of pain a human body could feel…watching his own blood pool and then curdle in the cold.

That was where it got by turns more and less disturbing.The next painting was the elevator, that moment where he realized he either had to submit to capture (its own form of death, when it came to Hydra) or take a leap of faith and hope for the best.Those images were frozen in his mind; bodies piled at his feet, blood on his knuckles, the clear blue sky beyond the glass.

Then the water, his last moment of consciousness after Project Insight.He had never seen fire from underwater before and that was what he tried to paint: destruction beneath the cool wash of the Potomac.He could have painted Bucky for that one, his terrifyingly blank face, but the things Bucky had done to him that day would not, on their own, have killed him.The fall from the helicarrier into the river was what spelled the end.After so many blows to the face, the impact with the water was enough to knock him out.He would have drowned.He _did_ drown, a little.It felt like pneumonia.

The last painting was by far the hardest one to do.It still ripped his guts out to think of the fight with Tony.For as often as they butted heads, he cared very much about Tony.There were many layers to the man but the center of him was as good as they came.To commit his face to canvas with all its layers of emotion - rage, despair, hatred, and guilt among them - was something that had taken Steve days.His eyes alone were the stuff of hours, because if he was going to do it he was going to do it right.Every bit of depth in the dark irises, every lash, every brushstroke it took to recreate that glassy look, the tears clinging but not falling until he swung to punch, teeth bared…

He was never going to kill Tony, and neither was Bucky.But he knew in his gut that Tony was hurt enough to have killed that day, and rightly so.He wouldn’t have had to kill Steve once Bucky was gone.Losing him would have done the job.And that was why he fought so hard.That was why he bloodied one friend to save the other.It was one of the most painful things he’d ever done, but he had done it without question; Bucky had never asked to be made into a weapon to be pointed where Hydra pleased.Of course there was no way for Tony to understand that, not when he saw his parents murdered, and certainly not when the murderer was standing ten feet away from him.There was no rationality in that kind of situation.

Nevertheless, Steve couldn’t help but feel angered by how quickly the switch flipped.Tony’s olive branch had come with acknowledgment that he was at least partially wrong about the whole awful situation.That some other plot was shifting the earth beneath their feet.Still he fell right into the trap; they all did.But after Clint, after Wanda and Pietro, after calling Steve his captain and meaning it, how…

That was Zemo’s genius.He had studied them closely enough to know what would tear them apart.Steve sighed and looked up at the ceiling.He was stubborn as hell and would go to the ends of the earth for Bucky; that made him predictable and easy to manipulate.Tony was incredibly intelligent but emotions were not things he handled well, and anyone with a television or a wifi connection knew he made gut decisions without thought.Sometimes it worked in his favor and sometimes it did not.There was a house at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean to prove that, and nothing need be said about Ultron.

Steve had lived through a lot of things he’d rather forget, but fighting with Tony was at the top of his list.Excepting Bucky, he’d never had to put his fist into the face of someone he cared about before.With Tony he couldn’t afford to pull punches.He fought him the same way he fought Schmidt on the Valkyrie, like the whole damn world was on the line, and right then it _was._ That whole time he cared more about Bucky than anyone - _anything_ else.He’d broken the law, let his friends go to jail, sullied the legacy of Captain America.He didn’t regret it, per se, but hated that for all his supposed strength of character, he was still a selfish son of a bitch who just wanted what mattered most to _him_.But it was hard to feel shame, because what the fuck was wrong with wanting one little piece of happiness after _everything?_ What was wrong with trying to save a man who had been victimized by so many for so long?

What made _him_ different from Bucky, really?How many beloved parents had he killed?How many Zemos and Tonys had _he_ created?That was what made it all so maddening.It was a circle, a never-ending circle of torn souls and bloody feet.In that moment in Siberia he felt trapped in the middle, gnashing teeth and angry bodies all around, helpless to stop the horrible collision of intent and circumstance.

Steve pictured the paint bubbling and peeling in the heat, the fire burning from the frame inwards, devouring the murderous lines of Tony’s body and his accusing eyes.He rubbed his temples.So much work.So much time spent turning himself inside out.And now it was gone.Maybe it was symbolic.Maybe the bridge was burned forever.He had realized while painting that perhaps the best he could hope for was cordial acknowledgment of one another’s existence, the occasional side-by-side fight if things got really, world-endingly bad.Steve couldn’t change that if it was the case; he didn’t have the _right_ to try to change that.He couldn’t give Bucky up but he also couldn’t expect Tony to just be okay with the fact that Steve was in love with the man who had murdered his parents, willingly or not.People had limits.Forgiveness wasn’t a requirement and it didn’t make Tony a bad person if he refused to give it.

Steve didn’t really know what all of it made him.A fool, perhaps.He had always been deeply flawed and only a fool would think the serum had fixed that.Just because he had muscles and could breathe now didn’t mean he was any better at picking his battles or listening to someone else’s point of view.Dr. Erskine had seen something worthwhile in him and Steve knew he had done a lot of good, saved many lives, but he had also made mistakes.Apparently super soldiers made proportionally catastrophic mistakes.

Steve sighed, switched off the TV, and curled up next to Bucky.

 

 

 

Pepper was there when he got back.

“Oh, Tony,” she said, hand over her mouth.“Oh, babe.”

So he looked as bad as he felt.He dropped the paintings by the door and banished the suit.It was crusted in soot and ash and he’d been sweating so hard at the gates of hell that he smelled.Pepper didn’t notice.She crushed him in a hug.

He was happy she was there.Really, he was, but if she didn’t let go and let him breathe, he was going to have an epic breakdown.

“Pepper,” he said hoarsely.“Pep.Please.Gotta breathe.” 

She released him.He opened his mouth to try to explain but saw that he didn’t need to.She brushed some ash out of his hair and stepped back.Tony gave her a look that he hoped was grateful before he fled.

He ran a scalding shower and spent most of it leaning against the wall.When he got out Pepper was in the living room.She had set up the paintings in order along the furniture and stood in the middle.She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the same one that haunted him.

“Steve painted these?” she asked.

Tony nodded.

She looked at him and her eyes were huge.“He’s not…he wasn’t _there_ , was he?”

“At some point he was.Not tonight.”

Pepper put her hand on her chest and the look of relief on her face was so potent that for a minute he let himself share in it.Normally Steve would not have needed his help to escape anything, but when the only way out was up, Steve was at something of a disadvantage.About the only thing he couldn’t do was fly.

“Your face when you came in…” she said, trailing off.“And then these…I thought…”

“No.”He ducked his head so she wouldn’t see the march of conflicting emotions that passed over his face. 

“I had no idea he could do this.”

“Me either.”

Pepper touched the sixth canvas.The funhouse mirror canvas.The picture of him that was both completely foreign and frightening in its accuracy.

Pepper spoke again, voice soft.“Tony, it’s… _nine lives_.”

As always she was was so much smarter than him.He sat down for the first time in eight grueling hours and dug his palms into his eyes.Steve had painted six brushes with death, of which he was number six.Steve thought he was trying to kill him that day. 

Steve was right. 

 

 

 

Fourteen people died.Rationally Steve knew that it would have been much worse without Tony, but even fourteen was too many.He couldn’t stop thinking that more could have been done if the Avengers were not scattered to the four winds licking wounds they had inflicted on each other.

His phone rang as the sun came up.Sam.

Steve answered, but didn’t say anything, at first.

“Steve?”

“I’m here.”It felt like an indictment to say it.

“I just…we just wanted to make sure you left.That you weren’t still in Tennessee.”

“We’re not.We’re fine.”

“Look, man, I know you’re not fine.”

“But I’m alive.”His mind was going to strange places.“Unburnt.”

“There’s not much you could have done,” Natasha spoke up, and he realized belatedly that he was on speaker.“You know that, right?”

“Not by myself,” he replied.“But there’s a lot _we_ could have done.”

“You can’t do that to yourself, Steve.Even if we weren’t utterly fucked, no one can be everywhere at once.Things happen and people die.It’s awful but it’s the world we live in.”

“She’s right, you know,” Bucky said from behind him.He was awake and tampering with the smoke detector.

“Listen to Barnes.”

He’d see how long that endorsement lasted once it became clear that they were ignoring the sensible thing to do, which was lay low in another safe house.As if on cue, Sam asked, “Where are you guys now?”

“St. Louis,” Steve lied without missing a beat.It was getting easier.“Nice apartment.Close to a blues club.”

“Stay put,” he said.“Enjoy the music.”

He might have, if there was nothing wrong in the world. 

“And call Tony,” Natasha added.“Please.Pepper said he’s a wreck.”

“I’m sure he is.”

_We all are.The Fucking Wreck Club._

“Be safe, Steve,” she said.“James, too.”There was a tone of knowing in her voice that pulled a sad smile out of him.

“You, too.”

 

 

 

Pepper had gone because he was no kind of fit company after something like that.He knew she would be back periodically to check on him and that was comforting.For now, he was sitting on the floor of the lab, back against the desk and a bottle of whiskey in hand.

Every time he closed his eyes he saw charred corpses.His hands shook with an involuntary tremor and he nearly dropped the bottle.

“No,” he said out loud, catching it and setting it down between his feet.“Friday, music.”

“What would you like to listen to, Boss?”

“Anything.”

“Initiating random selection from musical archives.”There was a pause and then a familiar song began to play.

 

_Coming out of my cage and I’ve been doing just fine…_

 

He almost laughed out loud.Tony wasn’t a believer in a higher power, but sometimes the universe had a sick sense of humor.He uncapped the bottle and took a long drink.It was the worst whiskey in his substantial liquor cabinet, purchased for exactly this purpose.The good stuff wasn’t for mourning.

“Sir, you have an incoming phone call.Number unknown.”

Well, that was interesting.Not many people knew the lab number. 

“What can you tell me?”

“Pay-as-you-go mobile, bouncing off a tower near Sioux Falls, South Dakota.No credit card information.”

“That’s because he reloads it with cash.Smart.”

“Shall I pick up, Boss?”

 

_I just can't look, it’s killing me_

 

“Let it go to voicemail.”He lifted the bottle to his lips again and all but chugged.He knew this didn’t solve problems but maybe, just maybe it would let him sleep because he hadn’t done that in nearly three days and now there were dead people behind his eyes instead of just the metal-armed boogeyman.

 

_Swimming through sick lullabies_

_Choking on your alibis_

 

“One voicemail, two minutes and eight seconds long.”

Against his better judgment, if there was such a thing, he said, “Play it.”

Friday paused the music.

“Tony, it’s me.I know I should have used the burner phone I sent you but I also know that you have it buried in a drawer somewhere so you’ll never hear it.I didn’t expect you to answer, but there are some things I need to say.First, thank you for helping those people who were arrested in D.C.It seem like wherever I go I leave a lot of collateral damage behind.It means a lot to me that you stuck up for them.”Steve paused briefly.“And last night, you did good.Really good.I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.I’m sorry we couldn’t do it as a team because I tore that team apart.That’s on me.”He heaved a sigh into the dead space of a one-ended conversation.“I was there before.I think you know that.I think you also know that Bucky is with me.Tony…I wish that someday we could just sit down and talk.Lay things out on the table and try to understand without throwing punches.I’m ready, if and when you are.If that’s never then I guess I’ll deal with it.I’m sorry I did this to us.I’m sorry I can’t be a better person.” There was another pause, longer, and Tony could almost hear his indecision.“I know that you’re sitting there right now trying to drink yourself into a stupor, so that maybe you don’t have to relive it every time you close your eyes.I know you’re thinking over and over and over about the ones you couldn’t save.I’m not gonna tell you to put the bottle down or some bullshit about not blaming yourself.I just…wanted you to know that you’re not alone.I’m always here.I’m the last person that you’d want, but I’m here.”

That was the end of it.

A sudden, irrational anger hit him.

“Ladies and gentleman, Captain Steven Rogers!” he exclaimed to the lab.The urge to throw the whiskey bottle was strong and he knew he had careened right past tipsy into the land of Drunk.When was the last time he ate?Tony had no idea.He leaned his head back against the desk, hand clenched around the glass neck of the bottle.

 

 

 

His phone rang and Steve stared at it in shock.

“Don’t answer,” Bucky warned.

“Bucky, I have to.”

“No you don’t.He didn’t.”

He gave him a look and answered the phone.“Tony?”

“Fuck you, Rogers.”His words were slurred and his voice was thick with grief. 

Steve bit his lips and waited; there was no way Tony was done.

“And Barnes and Natasha and Ross and little shits who play with matches in a drought.You think you can just leave me a fucking voicemail and it’s okay?A letter and a voicemail, I mean, don’t overtax yourself, Rogers, fuck.”

“In person you didn’t give me the chance to say anything,” Steve replied, keeping his voice as level as possible.It was useless to talk to Tony like this.Even so, he knew he had to make the effort.It was momentous that they were speaking at all, connected as they were by a fragile filament of shared misery.

“There’s nothing to say.”Just like that, all his vitriol was gone, and he sounded so tired.

Steve let silence lapse.Then he said, very softly, “You called me.”

“I _hate_ you.”

He felt strong enough not to flinch at the cold fury in Tony’s voice.“It’s gonna be okay, Tony.Doesn’t seem that way when you’re at the bottom of the pit and the walls are made of ice, but you’re gonna make it out.”

“Y’know,” Tony said, and he could _hear_ the slosh of liquor in a bottle, “I had Friday calculate the percentage of time that each person in the Avengers lied, based on a very complicated algorithm that you wouldn’t understand.Of course I can only account for when you were all in the compound.Do you know what she said for you?Zero point zero three percent.And most of that was you pretending to understand pop culture references.But there’s no weighting for the severity of a lie.I don’t really think that’s fair.”

“It’s not,” he agreed.

“Funny thing is, I forgot to exclude myself from the calculations.You know who lied the most?Me.”Tony laughed without humor.“Thirty one percent of the time I’m lying.”

Steve felt something volatile tremble in his chest.The comforting words on his tongue dried up.It didn’t matter, because Tony ended the call and Steve was left with dead air.He could only stare at the phone.

At last Bucky said, “He’s as bad as you are.”

“Yeah,” Steve answered distantly.“That’s why I had to pick up the phone.”

 

 

 

“Friday.Music.”

The AI obediently restarted the song where it had left off.Tony closed his eyes.He had the spins.It was that part of Drunk where you realized you’d made a terrible mistake.Oh, but there was no going back now.

He laid on the sealed concrete floor, watched the lights undulate across the ceiling.He would either fall asleep or start to feel sick.He thought probably the first, though, since it had been so long since he slept and half a bottle of whiskey wasn’t much different than a sledgehammer to the temple.Sure enough, he began to nod off a minute later, drifting away on the aching cacophony of the music.

 

_But it’s just the price I pay_

_Destiny is calling me_

_Open up my eager eyes_

_Cause I’m Mr. Brightside_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to think everyone knows this, but the song in this chapter is Mr. Brightside by The Killers.
> 
> Also, the wildfire in this chapter really happened on November 28, 2016. 14 people died and over 17,000 acres burned. It was (allegedly) started by two teenaged boys dropping lit matches on a trail. At the time the area was in severe drought and warnings were posted. In a way, it's an apt metaphor.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pieces start to move, and the boys find a new way to fight.

They got to Standing Rock Reservation under cover of night, late enough for things to be calm.The darkness was a thick cloak that made it impossible to see your hand in front of your face.Here there were no mountains impinging on the sky, and he and Bucky stood in the mud with mouths hanging open, because the arm of the Milky Way hung above them.

“Sometimes Bruce talks about how we’re made of stardust,” Steve said in a hushed voice.“The elements that make up our bodies.They came from out there.”

“Who’s Bruce?” Bucky asked.“He sounds smart.”

“He is.”His fingers found Bucky’s.“You know that huge green guy that was in the Avengers?”

“The Hulk?”

“That’s Bruce.”

“Huh.”Bucky squeezed his hand, spurred to honesty in the dark.“The only time I feel like stardust is when we’re in bed.”

“I guess that’s as close as we can get to home,” Steve murmured.It was a discussion they would have had on the deck in the Smokies, high as kites, except here they were, sober, about to embark on something not quite legal.

“You ready for this?” Bucky asked, as if reading his mind.

“Yes.”

“Okay.Follow my lead.”

 

 

 

Bucky was like a phantom; he made no sound, moved with such fluidity that sometimes Steve lost track of him.They were both dressed stereotypically, all in black, a two-man stealth unit.Steve was used to wearing some kind of helmet or mask or cowl, but a true ski mask just felt _strange_.It was warm, though.He could appreciate that.

Bucky signaled to him.He nodded and looked down, and sure enough, there between his feet was a thick hose.The very same that had been used to shower peaceful protesters in cold water in freezing temperatures.Bucky was crouched a few feet away from him, already working.

Together, they tied every hose in impossible knots.Then, satisfied, they moved on to the mobile armory.It was guarded, but only with two men who did not expect the sleeper holds from arms that could easily have crushed them.Steve and Bucky bent the barrel of every gun, destroyed the tasers, snapped the nightsticks and batons.Steve drew peace signs on the riot shields with the Sharpie he brought.Bucky rolled his eyes and wrote several messages with his, not the least of which included ‘WATER=LIFE’, and ‘PEOPLE  > PETROLEUM’.

They couldn’t figure out what to do with the pepper spray and tear gas - at least not anything Steve-approved.By then the guards were stirring.In a stroke of fevered genius, Bucky rigged a booby trap with a trip wire, gunpowder, and his lighter.Anyone who tried to get near the pressurized containers would risk triggering a cascade of burning misery.

The next order of business was the dogs.Steve was most nervous about them, because they were trained to attack humans.But as they slipped into the kennels it was quiet.The dogs were docile in the absence of cruel human commands.They let them out one by one, hoping the call of the wild would be enough to lure them away from captivity.Dogs were loyal, but at their core, still animals.

The water trucks were last, because there would be noise.Bucky dug his metal fingers into the side of the first truck with relish, ripping it clean open and dancing away from the gush of frigid water that followed.He started the second and third for Steve, and then went for the fourth.Steve put all of his considerable strength into gutting the trucks, gasping as water splashed on him, then laughing as he stood under the rush.It felt like baptism, like he was Andy Dufresne in the rain outside the walls of Shawshank.

Then they ran the four miles back to the car and in spite of the exertion Steve was blue and shivering because he had been stupid enough to get wet.Bucky stripped him and laid kisses everywhere he could, spurred by the streak of wild joy that had overtaken Steve.They fucked in the backseat like teenagers, Steve in Bucky’s lap, riding him until his skin was pink and radiating once again and the windows were fogged.For once, Steve didn’t bite down on his pleasure when he came, and Bucky’s ears rang with his voice. 

It was in the aftermath, amidst the pitched breaths and soft kisses, that Bucky remembered the earlier conversation about stardust and smiled.He could see the stars through the moonroof.He ducked his head and tasted the salt of the skin on Steve’s collarbone.He loved this - the weight of Steve on top of him, his warmth all around.Neither wanted to separate.

When they did, eventually, it was with laughter, because it had been much easier to get into that position in the cramped backseat than it was to get out of it. 

 

 

 

Pepper hated Tony’s habit of having a news network on at all times, but she knew why he did it.It wasn’t that he really wanted to know whatever godawful things the media harped on each day.It was that he felt he had to watch so he wouldn’t miss anything.Never mind that he had Friday monitoring a hundred different sources of information; he needed his own eyes and ears engaged to feel useful.

He had not left the couch in two days.But he ate and drank when she told him to, and caught up on the sleep he’d lost with the help of modern pharmaceuticals.Pepper fielded the calls from Ross.She didn’t pretend not to hate the man.He was vile.

A call was coming, that was for certain.She and Tony watched the reports from Standing Rock side by side on the couch.She was proud of Steve.Fiercely, maternally proud in a way she had never felt before, even though she knew his actions put all of them in a difficult spot.

“The revolution has begun,” Tony muttered, voice dry from disuse.“And it will be televised.”

And for all the heaviness in his tone, he got up.He showered, put on clean clothes, and took her out to breakfast.Ignored the near-constant vibration of his phone and instructed her to ignore hers, too, which Pepper was more than happy to do.On the walk home he answered and immediately hung up six times before Ross got the message.

He was not Captain America’s babysitter, and if they thought he would be helpful in curbing his activities, they were wrong.

For the first time in a long time, Pepper kissed him on the lips.

 

 

 

 

Bucky showed him the stencils, simple cut-paper things in the shape of the shield.They left rough but perfect spray-painted marks in a quick second.Bucky had tagged the water trucks and several of the riot shields when Steve wasn’t looking.It was all over the news.Everyone knew it was him.

“It’s your mockingjay,” Bucky said.

Steve nodded, something strange clenching in his chest.Until then he only thought of art on paper or canvas, but now he realized that those limitations didn't exist.The entire world was his to paint. 

 

 

 

 

On December 2nd the other veterans came.Steve and Bucky had given things a day to settle and then slipped into the camp, hiding easily enough in winter clothing and unshaven faces, though many of the protesters, indigenous and non-indigenous, knew who they were.They were welcomed with open arms.

Bucky thought it was the funniest thing that at least three of the dogs had made themselves comfortable in the camp, as if they knew who had the right of things.There was an all-black German Shepherd that seemed to like Bucky.It would trot around behind him, sit down next to him when he paused to talk to someone, and sleep outside their tent at night.

On a sunny but bitterly cold day, Bucky was talking to the people Delia had told him to look for, the dog leaning against the back of his left leg, when someone said,

“Sarge?”

He froze.No one called him that.It was a title from another lifetime.But so was the man who greeted his eyes when he turned.He was _old_ , his face lined and weather-beaten, but his frame was still strong.

“Jim.My God, Jim, are you crazy?It’s way too cold for a 97 year old out here.”

“You’re 99.What’s your point?”

He laughed because the universe was insane.Jim Morita was standing in front of him, full of piss and vinegar just like Bucky remembered.He called for Steve, who was talking to one of the tribal elders, and he _lived_ for the moments when he could see Steve so happy.He lifted Jim right off the ground in a hug, laughing and crying at the same time.Then kissed Jim on his grizzled temple without any shame.Jim smiled and let it pass without comment - perhaps the only mark of age beyond his wrinkled skin and white hair.

 

 

 

The dog liked Jim, too, and it kept him warm in Steve and Bucky’s tent.The camp was buzzing tonight; word was that the Army Corps of Engineers was going to issue a statement soon.The fight would either be won, or the effort redoubled.

Jim had brought tea with him, naturally, and the sense of deja vu was overwhelming as they watched him pour it out of his thermos with gnarled hands clad in fingerless gloves.He beckoned for their cups and measured portions for them.

“To old friends,” he said.

“Cheers,” they echoed.The tea was hot and bracing.

“I can’t believe how young you both still look,” Jim started after a few minutes.“Your eyes show some miles but that’s about it.”

“Should get a look at our souls,” Bucky said under his breath.Steve breathed a soft laugh and focused on the warmth of the steel mug in his hands.

“I should have come to see you, Steve,” Jim declared.“I just didn’t think you’d want the reminder, and I’m not exactly the most comforting guy.Wouldn’t have known what to say.” 

“Water under the bridge,” Steve said. 

Jim sighed, putting down his cup and massaging his arthritic fingers.“The girl on Election Day talking about her grandmother…I think I gave my daughter a heart attack.She’d never seen me cry before.”

“Whole world’s seen me cry.”

“They needed to.”

Steve looked up, questioning.

“You’re not made of stone.You’re human.They need to know that.”He lifted a hand, gestured widely to indicate everything around them.“This is bullshit, a hot steaming pile of it, and if you’re gonna set people right, they need to know you.The real you.”Morita sighed.“I’ve always been involved in protests, social justice, all that, but I’m getting too old.Mind’s still willing but the body isn’t good for much more than a walk around the block and naps in a recliner these days.There are a lot of people like me, who remember what things used to be like and how far we’ve come.Who don’t want to see it all go down the drain.That’s why we need you.Both of you.”He reached out and took their hands.“It’s bad enough they’re always trying to single out mutants and enhanced people, but I had to come when I saw the news.I had to come and ask you not to ever let them get away with this Muslim registry or ban or whatever the fuck it is they want to do.You know what my family went through.What a colossal load of crap it was for me to be there in Europe fighting for a country that singled out and imprisoned people just like the Nazis.I did it to prove them wrong, but I shouldn’t have had to.”He let go and looked up, and he was getting misty-eyed.“I can’t stand the thought of it happening again.Not to anyone.Jews, Japanese, Muslims, whatever.I think I’ve got it in me to live to a hundred and ten out of pure spite, but I won’t make it if I have to see that.” 

“I will never let that happen,” Steve said, voice hard.“Never.”

Morita nodded.“I know.Just don’t die trying.”

“I will never let _that_ happen,” Bucky said through his teeth.

“I know that, too.”

Silence fell, and they sipped their tea.

“So,” Morita said, tone casual.“You guys out yet?”

Steve choked on his tea and spent the next ten seconds coughing.Morita amiably clapped him on the back.

“You _did_ hear us that night in ’43,” Bucky said.

“Yeah, I heard.Like cats in heat, the pair of you.But you were my COs.What was I gonna do about it?Can’t say I understood it but you were still some of the best soldiers and men I ever knew.So, are you out?”

“To some,” Steve recovered.

“It’s gotta be all.On your own terms.When you’re ready.”

Steve nodded.He had reached that same conclusion himself, but was uncertain how to go about using this bit of leverage to its best advantage. 

“You’ll figure it out.”He smiled.“My granddaughter is gay.Still don’t get it, but her girlfriend makes her so happy.Who am I to question that?If you two do it for each other then what the fuck.”The smile turned into something sly and grandfatherly.“Gonna get married?”

“Yup,” Bucky said, without a trace of hesitation.“After I’m better.”

 

 

 

“Were you going to tell me about the marriage thing, or am I just going to wake up with a ring and a new title one day?” Steve asked.They were out in the cold, Bucky smoking a cigarette, while Jim napped inside the tent with the dog.

“Yeah, you’re gonna get promoted.”

“Bucky.”

He sucked on the cigarette like it was a lifeline and then looked up, more skittish than usual.“I mean, I figured you knew.”

“I do know.”

Bucky shrugged, as if to say, what’s the problem?But he knew what Steve was getting at.He pulled the elastic out of his hair and dropped down to one knee, cigarette still hanging out the corner of his mouth.

“Steven Grant Rogers, of the tenements of old Brooklyn, he of the asthma and flat feet and poor decisions, will you marry me once I’m not so fucked in the head?”

“Might not want me when you’re not fucked in the head,” he replied, smiling as Bucky wrapped the hair elastic around his left fourth finger.“I’ll marry you today, Buck, you know that.You don’t need to be ‘fixed’.”

“I want to be.”

Steve pulled him to his feet, slid the elastic from his finger and redid the low, messy ponytail that kept Bucky’s hair out of his face when it was windy.Bucky hummed at his touch. 

“They have a name for people like us in the tribes,” he said, hand still stroking gently at the back of Bucky’s neck.Bucky leaned into him, stupid with the realization that Steve had just agreed to marry him someday.“Two-spirit,” Steve continued.“I don’t understand it fully, and it’s not our label to take, but I thought it was beautiful.It’s the idea of people being accepted for whatever lives inside them, for whatever traits and skills they have, regardless of whether it’s traditionally masculine or feminine.More than accepted.Valued.Revered.And allowed to love whoever they want.”

“Sounds just about perfect.” 

“Damn enlightened for a concept that’s hundreds of years old.Maybe thousands, who knows.”

“Love’s the oldest thing there is,” Bucky said.“My Ma used to say so.”

“Winifred’s word is law.”He felt Steve smile against his ear.In that moment every kind of curse flew through his mind at Jim Morita, because he wanted nothing more than to drag Steve into the tent and make slow love to him until the cosmos made sense.

 

 

 

The next day they stood in protest in lines of soldiers and civilians, Steve and Bucky carefully camouflaged among dozens of others with Morita between them.The last few days had been peaceful; the private security hired to manage them had nothing to use against them except stony glares.The black dog was still tailing Bucky and it sat next to him at attention.

In the afternoon they got word that the Army Corps of Engineers had halted the project.Victory felt good, though Steve took it for what it was: a delay, rather than a full renouncing of the project.It was better than nothing and these people deserved to celebrate.

Bucky got nervous as the area began to fill up with news crews.He was right to be.Among the protesters they were safe, but they weren’t ready for the cameras.Not yet.As silent and stealthy as they had come, they stole away, leaving the dog curled with Morita in the tent and a note pinned to Morita’s shirt.

_Thanks for the kick in the ass_ , it read. _We’ll be at your 110th birthday party._

 

 

Maria sighed.Sifting through encrypted files was tedious work.She had turned up nothing of use so far and neither had T’Challa.But if it was meant to be obvious or easy they would have found it the first time.If there was anything to find.

There was a part of her that wanted to call Nick to pick his considerable brain.She had not just been attracted to him for his looks, which she qualified as BAMF.He was one of the smartest people she’d ever known in a lot of ways.Not all of them, though.

She had promised Steve she wouldn’t talk to Nick about what was going on, and she planned to keep that promise.Tempting as it was to brainstorm with him like old times, she wasn’t going to call him; with a deep breath, Maria deleted his number from her phone.It wasn’t lost forever because he would text her at some point.For now, though, she couldn’t contact him even if she wanted to.

There was a rap of knuckles on the glass door to her office.For what must have been the thirtieth time that day, she minimized her computer screens. 

“Mr. Stark,” she said, offering a relaxed smile, “what can I do for you?”

“Oh, not much.I just met your boyfriend down in the Atrium.Hamid, is it?He’s nice.He brought you these.”He held out a bouquet of Stargazer Lillies.“He stopped by between appointments.He’s a dentist?Truly noble profession.”

Maria took the flowers from him and opened one of her drawers to prop the bouquet in.“Thank you for bringing these up.”She eyed Stark.They knew one another from SHIELD, but not enough for him to hover at her door after completing his task.Not enough for him to take on her flower delivery himself, when he had about a thousand assistants.

He decided not to pretend, and for that she was grateful.Stark closed the door, hit the button that frosted the windows, and sat down in the chair across from her.

“I wouldn’t have figured it out if not for Hamid.I’ll give you that.”He took off his sunglasses and folded his arms.“You should have rented a car, not borrowed his.”

Ah.So he had run the plates of the cars that were at the cabin.No harm until Hamid walked in today and, starstruck, introduced himself.Damn it.She ought to have briefed Hamid on this, but they had only been dating for three months; she didn’t think it was serious enough to warrant discussion of her secret dealings with fugitive superheroes.

“You also shouldn’t decrypt old SHIELD and Hydra files on your work PC,” Stark added.“Kinda obvious.”

“It’s all public domain, and what I do on my lunch break is my business.Ever think maybe you shouldn’t spy on your employees?”

“Maria,” Stark said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.“Please.” 

“All right.What are you going to do, fire me?”

“No.”

Maria blinked, having to back herself down from the angry departure speech already assembling itself in her mind.“Wait, what?”

“I’m promoting you.Whatever it is you’re working on for Rogers, do it full time.And for God’s sake, use Friday to help.She’s a lot faster.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why do people always ask me that?” Tony huffed.“Yes, I’m serious.And I already regret this.”

“You won’t,” she said.“Believe me, if I find what we’re looking for, you won’t.”There was a silence, and then she made a face.“…Do I have to change offices?I kind of like this one.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”He looked skyward.“Friday, patch into Ms. Hill’s office and assist her, please.Maximum security level.”He set his sunglasses back on his face.“Not a word of this to Rogers.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Maria said.

Tony stood up and made to leave.He paused near the door.“This Hamid guy.He seems like a keeper.I don’t remember Fury ever bringing you flowers.”

“Well, Tony, you’ve figured it all out, haven’t you?” she said acidly, but with a trace of a smile.“I’m surprised anyone noticed.”

“I thought about poaching you from SHIELD a long time ago, but you were all in with Fury.Don’t make me sorry I brought you on board now.”

Maria pursed her lips.“Don’t make me sorry I trusted you.”

He offered a terse nod and let himself out.Maria exhaled.This wasn’t what she meant by keeping an eye on Stark, but it would work.The use of the AI would make things so much easier.

“Friday?”

“Yes, Ms. Hill?”

“I’m trying to decrypt some files.Has Tony already worked on the dump from Project Insight?”

“Mr. Stark has decrypted 42% of all files associated with the Project Insight breach.”

“Scan those files for any mention of the following keywords in English or Russian: Winter Soldier, the Asset.Number 17, proper noun only.Freight car.Siberia.Barnes, James Buchanan.Rogers, Steven Grant.Captain America.Erskine, Abraham.Zola, Arnim.Schmidt, Johann.Arctic.Ice.Plane.Shield - object, not organization.”

“There are 6,476 results.”

Maria blew out a breath, ruffling her bangs.“Can I get some of those floating displays like Tony always has?”

“Certainly.”The glass frosted again, and glowing documents came up in four separate panels.“I’ve sorted into categories regarding Barnes and/or Winter Soldier, Rogers and/or Captain America, remaining names, and other.”

“Anything compelling that has more than one keyword?”

“Sorting into a fifth category.”

“I’ll start there.In the meantime…Friday?”

“Yes, Ms. Hill?”

“I need you to start decrypting the rest of the Insight files.All of them.”

“This will take substantial time and resources.”

“I know.Take all the time you need.Feel free to interrupt me if you find anything that jumps out.”

“Beginning now,” the AI stated.

Maria texted Hamid to thank him for the flowers.Then she kicked her heels off and put her hair back in a ponytail.It was time to get to work.

 

 

 

“You’ve known him longer than me.Does Rogers ever listen to _anyone?”_ Sam asked.His coffee had gone cold as he watched the coverage of Standing Rock.Steve and James were long gone, but other protesters had snapped pictures of them on the sly and they were parading the images across the screen.Both men were scruffy and bundled up but unmistakably themselves.

“He listens to his gut.It’s right most of the time.The rest of us just have to play catch-up,” Natasha replied.

He looked away from the television.“You can’t seriously be okay with him running around like this.He’s going to get himself locked up in the Raft or killed.”

“James won’t let that happen.”She reached her hand across the table, laid the tips of her fingers over his.“You know he’s good when he has a wingman.He did a lot of running around before, with you watching his back.The only reason it’s different now is because you’re grounded.”

And damned if that didn’t _sting_. 

“You are savage,” he said, pride disemboweled.

“Only to people I care about.”Unapologetic, of course.But she was smiling and trailing her fingers up his wrist.

“Is that an _Instagram account?”_ he nearly shouted a moment later, when another picture of Steve flashed across the screen.He was wearing a gray knit hat and looking right at the camera, clearly expecting the shot.There was something mischievous in his blue eyes.Steve’s hand was over his mouth and the account was written in ink across the back of his middle finger. 

Natasha laughed and laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.It made Sam forget the gut-churning nature of his feelings because he had never seen her laugh like that before, and it was impossible not to join in.And really, it was pretty funny.Steve Rogers was giving the government the finger, and inviting everyone else to join him.

 

 

 

“Christ.”

“What?”

“Ten thousand followers.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

 

 

 

There were two pictures so far.The first was in black and white, except the eyes; it was Barnes looking straight on, a lit cigarette listing dangerously from his lips.His hand was up and the word ‘Hi’ was written on his palm in Sharpie.Hashtag JBB.Tony tried not to look, because it might force him to acknowledge that Barnes was a person and not a monster, though he knew full well that it was possible to be both.Gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back into you.

The second was of Steve on his stomach on the floor of a tent, sketchbook open in front of him, his chin resting in his left hand and the right fiddling with a pencil.The sleeves of his sweater were too long.He was deep in thought, cares erased.Truly candid.Hashtag SGR.

It was a sucker-punch to the gut, that face.Same with the picture they’d shown on the news with the Instagram account.Tony had not seen him relaxed like that since before Ultron, and even then, it was rare.He never realized that in Steve, he’d met someone who had as hard a time being happy as he did.It was there but he never understood it.Never looked at it from the right angle.The angle that he understood very well, indeed, anytime Pepper became fed up with him and left him to his own devices.

Fuck.

His phone vibrated for what had to be the hundredth time that day.Ross was persistent, and his voice messages and e-mails were growing increasingly more threatening.It was all sound and fury, but it lodged in Tony’s head and spun around in circles along with everything else until he became so anxious that he had to put on the suit and literally go underwater to find solace.

But Pepper was there.More and more, she was with him, keen mind and even temper balancing the focus he couldn’t seem to find.Awake when he was asleep, knocked out by medications that made slumber a void from which he rose without dreaming.And that was good, that there were no more corpses, but the knowledge that they existed rattled around in the recesses of a brain dulled by the only kind of cocktail he could happily turn down. 

He hated it.Always had.That was why he never stuck with the meds, even when panic attacks crippled him, manic swings made him a live wire that no one could safely touch, and depression made him stand at the edge of the balcony at Stark Tower and think about what it would be like to jump sans suit.Thankfully all he ever did was think, and he only ever got to that point two or three times.

Genius, for him, was a very fine balance of madness and restraint that benefited from the perturbations of his mood.It was just that everyone else got caught up in the tremors.So he was back to the same old choice.Be a genius or be a tolerable human.Or find a way to be both, because one or the other wasn’t enough anymore.

He had tried a few times.This time he had to succeed.The stakes had never been higher.It wasn’t as simple as throwing a nuke through a portal in the sky.This was something he had to do internally.Nukes need not apply.

“Pepper?”

She looked up from her computer and then rubbed the muscles at the base of her neck.“Yes, Tony?”

“Will you…will you find me a therapist?”

It had been years, of course, since she learned to control her face around him, but today there was a little slip of disbelief.

“What’s wrong with the psychiatrist you have now?” she asked.

“Nothing.I said a therapist, not a psychiatrist.You know, talking cure?Couches and patchouli and white noise machines?”

Pepper tried to hide a smile and failed.“Tony, that’s not what it’s like.”

“Well, whatever it’s like, I need to do it.”

She turned back to the computer and opened a new window.She began to type, and then paused, turning back to him.

“You mean it?”

“I mean it.I have to.I have to process this mountain of shit and find a way to live with it.”

She went back to typing, bottom lip between her teeth.“It takes _time,_ Tony.It doesn’t happen overnight.And you can’t…”

He waited, knowing what she was going to say.

“Well…” she said, shoulders dropping slightly, “you can’t dodge.They can’t help you if you lie, or if you try to do their job for them.You’re better than everyone at a lot of things, but mental health isn’t one of them.”

“I know.But how do you do that?How do you just…tell a stranger everything?”

“Think of it like talking to Jarvis.Or Friday.Someone objective and detached.Someone you know won’t say anything to anyone else.These people, they…well, we pay people to fix things, like cars and computers and plumbing.Therapists do the same except it’s your thoughts and feelings.The _way_ you think, and how that influences the way you feel and act.”

“You’re telling me they’re brain mechanics,” he murmured, unconvinced.

“No.Emotion mechanics.Or engineers.Or both.And at the end of it you know how to fix things yourself in a lot of cases.It’s a good investment.”She clicked through a few more things, and then wrote a phone number on the legal pad to her left.“Here.”

“Oh, come on, you’re gonna make me call myself?”

Pepper ignored him.And really, she deserved to torment him; he had no doubt that she had spent a lot of time with therapists because she was foolish enough to love him.He took the paper and retreated. 

 

 

 

They were back in Sioux Falls.Unlike Bucky, Steve remembered things like street names and useless landmarks, and there was a spot from his run the last time that was perfect.After Bucky showed him the stencils he did his own research and discovered wheatpasting.It seemed absurdly easy and _perfect_ , and in half a day he had created something he never imagined he could.

It was snowing lightly as he worked.Bucky was standing watch.Steve knew there was a gun in his hand.He also knew he wouldn’t use it.How, he couldn’t say, but he just knew.So he let himself drift as he worked, losing himself in the twin exhilaration of dissent and art…so often bedfellows in times like these.

 

 

 

Steve’s phone vibrated in his pocket.Steve was up on a ladder and completely absorbed in what he was doing.Bucky was on watch but there wasn’t much need for it; they were in the business sector, which was deserted this late at night.That was the only reason he glanced at the screen of the phone.

_Tony_.

Stark was calling.Bucky glanced up at Steve.He wasn’t going to interrupt him.The faster he was done, the better.Though the temptation to just let it go to voicemail was strong, he knew that Steve would answer.And he remembered how _sad_ Tony Stark was.

He swiped his thumb over the screen and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Rogers?”Sober this time.

He waited a long moment before he said, “No.The Manchurian Candidate.”

There was a pause; Stark was surprised.Then, “Put Steve on.”Voice hard.

“He’s busy.”

“Damn right he is, busy making my life hell.Did you talk him into this?”

It was hard for Bucky to keep from laughing out loud.“Have you met Steve Rogers?”

Stark made a disgusted noise and hung up.

 

 

 

Wanda’s phone chimed as she got ready.She and Sam were going to the crash site today, borrowing a jet from T’Challa.She wondered if she was dressed warmly enough.Probably not.As she threw extra layers into a bag, the phone buzzed again.

Two text messages.One from Natasha, one from Vision.She opened Viz’s first.

_Have you seen Captain Rogers’ work?_

_Not yet,_ she replied, unsure what he meant.

_It is on the Instagram account.It is quite remarkable._

That gave her pause, because that was high praise coming from him.She had followed Steve and James’ account right away, unsure what their endgame was but glad for a glimpse of them nonetheless.She opened Instagram and it was at the top of her feed.

It was of a mural of sorts, its elements made of paper and ink.They had been pasted to a blank concrete wall.The center was black and white, a person in what was clearly traditional Native American dress and an expression of exhausted despair.He held an empty pitcher at his side.The wall and the person were splattered in one violent swathe of garish, metallic color that resembled blood splashing off a swinging blade.After a moment’s contemplation she realized it was oil, the way it looked when it dripped onto wet pavement and spread in rainbowed bursts. 

_I do not understand my reaction,_ Vision texted.

Wanda smiled to herself. _Sometimes with art_ , she replied, _you are not meant to._

 

 

“Steve?”

“Hmm.”He said it into his coffee cup, barely awake.

“One million followers.”

The coffee was too hot, and he winced.“Yeah?”

“Pretty damn good, babe.”

But Steve wasn’t looking at him.He was looking at the television, and he was suddenly very awake.The TV was on BBC World News.For the last few hours they had been covering the worsening situation in Aleppo.Syria was on Steve’s list, and it was clear from his expression that it had just moved up several notches in importance.And it should have; things were rapidly declining and civilians were sending out desperate social media messages, fearing for their lives.It sounded like the end of days.Maybe it was selfish of him to want Steve to have the chance to get through his morning coffee before he was ripped open by the horror of it.

As he took it in, Bucky saw the mug slipping from Steve’s hand and moved without thought.He caught it.Hot coffee splashed, but thankfully it was only on his metal hand.

“One of the White Helmets,” Steve said, spooked.“I think it’s someone I know.”Steve moved closer to the TV, coffee forgotten, waiting for the footage to loop.When it did he actually reached out a hand, incredulous, as if he could touch the man through the screen.“What the hell is he doing?”

“Helping,” Bucky said.He didn’t know who the man was, or how Steve could even recognize him with the helmet and beard, but in the shot he was pulling a man caked in blood and plaster dust from the rubble.He felt his throat constrict at the thought of being in a place like that again, memories of the war remote but always stunning in their brutal clarity.He could almost hear the shells.Bucky forced his voice out anyway.“Time to go?”

“Yeah,” Steve said heavily, not looking away.“Time to go.”

 

 

_Any progress?_

The text from Natasha was straightforward, as expected.Wanda glanced around to make sure no one was nearby and began to type a response.

_My contacts in Sokovia are agreeable._

_Can they be trusted?_

Wanda smirked as she typed. _No_. 

There was a long pause.Then Natasha responded: _Do we really want to let this guy live, after what he did?_

That was the question of the hour.It was pretty clear where Natasha leaned.Wanda knew that Helmut Zemo was not a good man.He had directly and indirectly killed more people than the Winter Soldier ever had, entirely of his own will.But it was his hypocrisy that infuriated her; he had robbed many people of their family members, yet seemed to think that he was alone in loss when his family died.There was a dark urge inside her to spit in his face and tell him he wasn’t special.

That same urge would make it easy to walk away.To turn her back, leave Zemo to his fate with those he had wronged.She talked about human nature a lot with Vision because he didn’t really understand; prime among some of their recent discussions was the fact that every human had a dark side.Large or small, it was there.This was hers.

She typed back to Natasha.

_That depends on what he tells us._

 

 

 

It was absurdly easy to cross the border.Steve knew it was like that because no one in their right mind wanted to cross this way, unless they were transporting weapons, aid, or news.Getting out wouldn’t be so simple.

War was just like he remembered it.A complete juxtaposition of normal life and utter destruction.In the space of miles they crossed through towns untouched by the war, full of citizens going about their business, and towns that were reduced to nothing but rubble.People darted among that rubble, nervous mice, sooty shadows doomed to exist among the ruin of their lives.

Just like Europe.Just like the forties.Different people and weapons and regimes, but otherwise, it was the same old horrible shit.

This time, he didn’t try to pretend that the tremor in Bucky’s hand when he lit a cigarette wasn’t there.It was in his own hand, too.It was hard to be back.

Somehow when he was fighting with the Avengers it wasn’t this bad.Maybe because he knew the people at his side were…not immortal, but much harder to kill than the average person.And that if they lost, everyone was going to die anyway.There was a strange comfort in that; it let him forget to worry, because the only thing he could possibly do was fight until he either won or died.

War among regular people was much worse, full of the confrontation of mortality and meaninglessness and suffering.That was driven home the first night they heard the sirens go off. Bucky went white, broke out in a cold sweat, and for a moment Steve thought he would lose him.That he would retreat, like he had in Tennessee when he faded away to a safer time.A time when he had no attachments.He could tend to his basic needs that way, and prime among them was the need for self-preservation.

But Bucky stayed with him, pale and shivering and making the most heart wrenching noises in his throat.Steve held him tight even though he wanted to be doing the exact same thing.There were eleven other people in the shelter with them.It was nothing more than a root cellar with walls that had been hastily reinforced with concrete.If a bomb landed directly on them, they would all probably die, but it was safer than being above ground.

No one spoke.There was only the whisper of harsh breathing and a baby crying.Bucky was quiet now, because he had put the knuckles of his left hand in his mouth and was biting on them.Steve locked eyes with an old woman across from them as the ground shook from the bombardment and dust shivered down.She knew they were outsiders, maybe even knew who they were.But in that moment, she looked at them like grandsons, tenderness in her eyes.

It gave him the strength to close his eyes and focus on his breathing.One way or another, it would end.One way or another. 

Fifteen minutes later it was over and they were still breathing.From there it was a long, dark night full of sifting through what rubble they could to look for survivors.Steve struggled to contain his strength; if he wanted to he could have lifted entire sides of buildings by the rebar webbing, and he and Bucky together could have done much more than that.But they had agreed that it was critical that they stay hidden this mission.He couldn’t be seen as Captain America or Steve Rogers in a war zone that America had steadfastly avoided (echoes of FDR, too familiar, all of this, like history really _did_ repeat itself), and Bucky couldn’t be seen as the Winter Soldier in a place teeming with Russians (any one of which might know something or someone that put Bucky in danger).They were here to help, not fight, unless they had to defend their own lives.To do anything else would risk an international and political incident that neither man wanted to be responsible for.

It was stupid and dangerous but so were they.

So they picked through the debris as regular, albeit strong men, and by sunrise the work of many hands yielded three survivors and three times as many dead.The old woman from the shelter fed them yogurt and olives and mashed fava beans, and bracing glasses of both tea and arak were passed around.

The astringent anise sting of the arak cleared Steve’s brain.He found Bucky, who was sitting against one of the houses that still stood and staring at his hands.Steve knew why.They were both bloody, but for once the dried mess seeping into their lifelines was neither their own blood, nor that of someone they had killed.Steve strode over and lowered himself down next to Bucky.

They sat in silence for several minutes.

“We gotta go,” Bucky said at last, stating the obvious.

Steve nodded.Then he took his left hand, and the cool smoothness of the metal fingers hidden beneath the hologram linking with his was as clarifying as the arak.“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” 

“Making you go through this.”

“You’re not making me do anything.”

“If this is too much—”

Bucky cut him off.“It’s not.I’m just not as good at hiding it as I used to be, and you’re better at hiding it than you used to be.I figure, as long as we got each other, we should end up somewhere in the middle.”

Steve stared at him.In his mind _neither_ of them had ever been any good at hiding the ravages of war, but that manifested in different ways.Bucky took a breath and downed the last of his tea.Then he shifted, sitting on his heels and unscrewing the cap of his water bottle.

Bucky started to wash the dirt and blood off Steve’s hands as best he could, until Steve scolded him to stop wasting water that was better drunk than sacrificed.

“But it bothers you,” Bucky said, with the acuity of all the years and experiences that stretched between them.

Steve didn’t deny it, though the blood was so thick and mixed with so much dirt and dust that water alone wouldn’t help.As he said as much to Bucky, the old woman approached.She held out a small bowl and some scraps of fabric.Steve took the bowl and Bucky the cloth; the frayed cotton yielded a sliver of yellow soap, cut off a bar with a knife.The water in the bowl was warm, a welcome change from the achingly cold issue from most of the taps they encountered. 

“Shukran,” Steve said, nodding at the woman with emotion rising in his throat.She smiled - beautiful, crinkled, tired - and meandered away.Bucky looked at him with appraising eyes, surprised that he knew any Arabic.Steve knew how to say thank you in at least twenty languages; in his opinion, it was the most important and useful phrase there was.

They washed their faces first, and then their hands, until the water and the cloth were dark with grime and the soap whittled away to nothing.

 

 

Bruce knelt, trying to ignore the burn of the pebble that was beneath his tibial tuberosity.It hurt like a bitch but any move could be a one way ticket to his own personal hell.He breathed through his nose and prayed that this wouldn’t be the day his luck ran out.

It wasn’t the first time the field hospital had been ‘inspected’.All three parties in play had a vested interest.Sometimes they just took supplies.Tonight it was the Russians, and they were looking for someone.

His Russian wasn’t good.His Arabic, on the other hand, was great.From what the nurse on his left, Nafisa, whispered, they were looking for a man who had shot two Russian soldiers.In the firefight he was wounded.Bruce knew that he was here, on cot 26.He’d removed the bullet himself but didn’t have the time or the supplies to fix the fracture in his arm, or to break the news to him that his radial nerve had been compromised and he’d never have normal use of his arm again.It wasn’t going to matter, anyway.Either the Russians would shoot him, or they would drag him away and make him wish for the bullet.

He hated this.But if the choice was one man or the entire hospital, staff and patients, he would let them do what they wanted.It was the only way to save as many people as possible.

As he watched the Russians move among the sick and wounded, barking out orders that most of the people didn’t understand, it felt different.Dangerous.Whoever the man on cot 26 had shot, it was someone important, and the Russians were angry.

Bruce lowered his eyes to the floor.Dug his teeth into his lower lip when they found the man and dragged him forward, depositing him ten feet away from where the doctors and nurses knelt, guns trained on them.Four savage blows from fists and feet had Cot 26 crying out and bleeding.Bruce winced and felt the bubble of true rage beneath his skin when the man in charge stomped viciously on the broken arm.The howl he let out… 

_Stay in control.You can’t help them if you lose control_.

But it wasn’t that simple, not today, because a moment later the Russian shouted, in perfect Arabic, “Who has treated this man?” 

He heard Nafisa take in a sharp breath.She had assisted him to remove the bullet.It was clear how this was going to go, and he wouldn’t let Nafisa take the fall.She had children at home, if a tent could be called home.He had nothing.

“I did,” Bruce spoke up.“I took the bullet out.”

Two men came forward and seized him, propelling him toward Cot 26 too fast for his feet to keep up.He was thrown onto the ground, bracing himself with his hands on either side of the man’s now-ruined face.

“Ana asif,” he was moaning, tears in his eyes.“Ana asif!”

_I’m sorry_.

Bruce knew it was directed at him, not at the Russians.He wasn’t sorry for the shooting.

“You killed two of ours,” the Russian said.“And we will take two in return.On your knees, good doctor.”

_Fuck.Fuck fuck fuck fuck._

Bruce obeyed.His only comfort was that they seemed to want to shoot him first, which would mean Cot 26 wouldn’t be shot at all.The Other Guy would see to that.

Of course, then he would have to leave.Bruce closed his eyes as he felt the barrel of the gun against his forehead.He couldn’t say it had been good here, but he had the opportunity to be useful and to help people who couldn’t help themselves.It was the only way he could fight anymore.

“Let this be a lesson,” the Russian said.“We will kill every last one of you if you help scum like this again.”The safety clicked off.

_Good night and good luck._

 

 

 

He had never seen Steve frozen before.Indecision and fear paralyzed him, eyes wide.Bucky could only imply why it happened.It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen people shot before; they had, many times.The person with the gun to his head had to be the person Steve knew, and Steve didn’t know how to save him. 

Before he knew what the was doing, his muscles bunched and he was moving.Silent, automatic, he leapt toward one of the Russians who stood near the door, out of sight of the situation.Bucky knocked him unconscious without a sound and ripped the walkie-talkie from his belt.Then he flipped the small compartment on his left arm open and pulled out an explosive.He ducked out the door and threw it toward the abandoned buildings they passed on the way in.At least he hoped they were abandoned.

A second later it detonated.He wasted no time getting on the walkie, pretending to be one of their comrades calling for help.If they bought it, Steve’s friend would be forgotten.

 

 

 

The shot never came, and neither did The Other Guy.The floor rumbled beneath him and a roar filled his ears.The Russian cursed and it was echoed in Bruce’s mind.If they were about to be bombed or in the middle of a firefight they needed to evacuate the patients, and they needed to do it _now_.

The Russian looked irritated, as if this was robbing him of some great fun.Bruce would have enjoyed knocking his teeth out.The soldier lifted his gun from Bruce’s forehead and offered a cold smile.

“The world sees fit to offer you a reprieve, good doctor.”

He turned to the soldier closest to him and spoke in Russian.The man stepped forward and aimed his gun at Cot 26.The other soldiers were moving out, streaming between the cots like water downhill. 

Bruce debated his odds in the seconds he had.He could disarm the soldier but to what end?If he fought them they would come back and they would _punish_.The soldier fixed his aim and Bruce was unable to look away from his finger, tightening in agonizing increments, depressing the trigger—

There was a blur and all of a sudden there were two.Limbs snapped out in controlled fury and the Russian soldier was on the ground, mouth open in a silent wail as he tried to breathe.The gun was wrenched from his hand and sent across the floor in a grating slide; it hit Bruce’s fingers where they clutched at the ground.The second man, dressed in black with his face covered, crouched over the Russian.He spoke in English.

“Tell them you shot him and _get out_.”

It sent shivers down Bruce’s spine, the threat in that voice.It promised agony.

The Russian soldier heard it, too, and he hastened to do as he was told.He scrambled away, limping and clutching his side.Then they were…not alone, but they might as well have been, for the way they were locked together.Bruce picked up the gun and aimed it at the new intruder.He was big and he was dangerous, that much was clear, but what discomposed him was the fact that he had no idea who or what this man represented.

The man in black was still for a long minute.

“Doctor,” he said at last, “a moment alone?Keep the gun if you need to.”

There was something in his tone, something familiar, and Bruce found himself rising to his feet.He kept the gun trained on him but gestured to the right.There wasn’t much privacy to be had here; the locked medication area would have to do.

He walked backwards, slow, and the other man followed, equally slow.Everything threatening about him had disappeared, except his size.Nafisa stood up when he neared, andconflict was plain on her face.She didn’t want Bruce to go anywhere alone with this man. 

“It’s all right,” he said.“Help him.”Him meaning Cot 26, who was immobile with pain, face white under the blood and livid bruising.At least three new fractures if Bruce had to guess, and now they could no longer put off surgery on that arm.No one would get much sleep tonight.

 

 

 

Bruce led him to a makeshift shed that opened with an ID badge.Steve observed him from behind the security of the hood and bandana.It had been years.Not kind ones.

Bruce was thin and wore a beard much thicker than the one creeping across his own cheeks.Though it was winter his skin was dark with a fading tan.He looked like he was from here, and sounded it, too; Steve was no expert but when he spoke his Arabic sounded flawless.He had been in Syria for a long time.

The door closed behind them and a fluorescent bulb was their only companion.Bruce looked at him, eyes wary but calculating.The gun was still on him and Steve realized he had never once seen Bruce with a weapon in his hand.He never needed one.

Steve reached up and pushed the hood back and the bandana down.The shock on Bruce’s face was complete.Tellingly, he did not lower the gun.

“I’m not here to collect you,” Steve said.

“That a fact?” Bruce replied, skeptical.“How did you find me?”

“BBC camera caught you in Aleppo last week.”

“Fuck,” he breathed.“I thought it would be Tony who figured it out.He’s always got the damned news on.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Steve said, dry and perhaps a little testy.That spurred the softening of Bruce’s face.He put the safety back on and brought his hands up to his temples, the gun against his right cheek.Suddenly, Bruce was Bruce again.

“God, Steve, I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

“For what?”It was the second time someone was asking him that in as many days.

“For existing.”

Bruce’s jaw worked; he didn’t know what to say to that.

Steve pressed on.“If I didn’t exist, _He_ wouldn’t exist.”They both knew to whom he referred; a weary look crossed Bruce’s face.

“If not you, it would be someone else,” he said, resigned.“And if you didn’t exist Hydra and the Nazis would own us all.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Steve murmured. _Who’s to say they don’t, anyway?_

“You know, Natasha warned me.Said you have this habit of taking everything on your shoulders so others don’t have to.So I’m going to say this once, and only once, and you’re going to accept it.What I did to myself is no one’s fault but my own.”Bruce sighed and gestured with the gun.“You been carrying that around since you found out about me?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, looking at his feet.

“And you’re just now saying it?”

“Didn’t think you wanted it, before.”

“I don’t want it now.So save it, Steve, and tell me why you’re here.”

He looked up and met Bruce’s eyes.“To help.”

“To help,” he repeated.

“Yes.However you need.”Steve squared his shoulders.“I’ve been in war and I can take care of myself.You won’t know I’m here if that’s what you prefer.Same for Bucky.”

“Barnes is with you?” Bruce said, incredulous, body tightening again.“I saw the news same as everyone else but I couldn’t _believe_ it was true.That you’d—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there and encourage you to think about what you say next,” Steve interrupted, voice and stance hard.And Bruce _stared,_ as if Steve had sprouted horns; the divide of years and consequence yawned between them.The last time they had spoken, they were both different men.

A minute passed, then two.Steve’s shoulders dropped.

“Okay,” he said softly.“Team Stark it is.”

“No,” Bruce spoke up, at last finding his voice.“You were right about the Accords.You were right not to sign and if I had it in me to be there I would have supported you.But Barnes…”He shook his head.

As always Steve knew what it looked like from the outside, but he couldn’t feel guilty for it anymore.Guilt changed nothing and he was so tired of explaining himself.

“You can trust me or you can believe what you hear on the news.That’s up to you.”

Bruce looked as if he didn’t want to say what he was thinking, but he said it anyway in a hushed voice.“He’s a murderer, Steve.” 

Maybe he thought the softness of his tone made up for the brutality of the statement.Brutal not just in content, but in emotional impact.Steve didn’t need to be reminded what Hydra had done to Bucky; he lived with it every day.

“Yeah,” Steve acknowledged, throat tight, “and he had no more choice in the matter than you do when The Other Guy takes over.You’re more alike than you know.”Steve reaffixed his bandana and pulled up the hood.“Sorry I bothered you.Be safe, Bruce.Safer than tonight.”

 

 

 

Steve’s body was tight, eyes stormy as he made his way through the rows of cots.Bucky paused in his discussion with the nurse.She wanted the man from Cot 26 to return to Cot 26 for treatment, but Bucky knew that if that man didn’t disappear it would be bad for everyone in the hospital.It helped that Cot 26 agreed; that did more to sway her than anything Bucky said.

“What is it?” he said as Steve drew near.Steve took hold of his arm and began to propel him toward the door.

“We’re not needed.”

“Um, I really beg to differ,” Bucky said, glancing back at the people languishing on the cots.Then he stopped entirely, digging his heels in and bringing Steve to a halt.“What happened?”

“We’re not welcome,” he said through his teeth, and Bucky could feel the anger and the hurt rolling off him.It only took a second to put it all together.

“You mean _I’m_ not welcome.”

“I mean _we’re_ not welcome.There’s no fucking difference anymore.” 

Bucky lowered his voice so people wouldn’t hear.“Steve—”

“Please, let’s just _go_.”He couldn’t believe how wounded Steve was; this doctor friend of his had stuck the knife in deep.Steve hadn’t expected it.Bucky was reserved in his hopes for people these days, but it was ballsy for this man to reject Steve after what he and Bucky had just done for him.Ballsy and cruel.

“Okay,” Bucky said.“We’ll find somewhere else.”

Steve nodded and set his jaw, and they turned back toward the door.

 

 

 

 

There was a clench in his chest as Steve retreated.Bruce blinked, trying to understand it - trying to understand _everything_ that had transpired in the last fifteen minutes.He still felt caught up in shock.

He had been away from the Avengers long enough to forget what they were to each other, once.Steve’s face jolted him into memories of belonging, relaxation, acceptance…laughter.There was always a current of worry in him, the feeling that things were too easy and he couldn’t possibly sustain what they had.But he had been foolish enough to indulge in the company of people like him, and for a few years he had friends.

He had watched things fall apart from a distance after Sokovia.The only one he spared a thought for, though, was himself.He never considered what it did to everyone else.Steve was different, unmistakably, molded into something sadder and harder and less patient.More human, maybe.

Still, he would never forget that party at Tony’s just before Ultron, when they were being silly and trying to pick up Mjolnir.Steve was the only one who could budge the damn thing.They had all seen it slide an inch across the table.He knew it had nothing to do with Steve’s physical strength, and everything to do with the man he was inside.

Steve, a veteran of the worst kinds of war, who clear as day had PTSD as bad as Tony if not worse, had willingly come into an active war zone to try to help.True, he toted an assassin with him, but this wasn’t a pretend game where he could choose one assassin over the other.Natasha was an assassin and he had been pretty damn okay with that, until she wisely chose the mission over their feelings for one another - a streak of altruism she claimed not to possess. 

And what had Steve said just before leaving? _You’re more alike than you know._

Bruce breathed.The longer he stood there, the more he felt like he had made a tremendous mistake.There was more to the story, there always was, and maybe he owed it to Steve to listen. 

He opened the door and ran, hoping he could catch them.Nafisa took one look at him and knew; she pointed toward the door.He went, knowing how stupid it was to run out into what was potentially an active combat area.It was chaos, smoke and heat and people, and there was no way he would find a man trained in stealth in these conditions or _any_ , if he didn’t want to be found.

“Shit,” he breathed as he ducked into an alcove between two houses.He leaned against the wall, grieving for the lost opportunity and for the way he hurt Steve.It was second nature, pushing people away, and Steve’s face, those blue eyes so old and so young at the same time, had felt like an ambush.“Bruce, you fucking idiot.”

A second later the hair on the back of his neck prickled and—

“Language, please,” Steve said softly, right next to him, and all Bruce could do was laugh.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for answers ramps up, Steve and Bucky find purpose and then some in Syria, and the Widow and the Witch behave badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! It's been a busy summer so I haven't had a ton of time to write, and we've reached the point in the story where I've caught up with what I already had written. From this point on it will be me writing all new chapters; please be patient! Thanks for the continued support, you guys are awesome.

In the cold the vapor of his breath seemed to freeze in midair.Sam could not shake the feeling that he was walking into some great metal mausoleum.The air inside the plane was stagnant and nothing had prepared him for the silence of the Arctic.It was so quiet that he wondered if he had gone deaf.

He followed the red glow of Wanda’s magic.He liked her, really he did, but seeing her like this - outlined in the dark, flame and grace - was enough to strike fear into any man.Sam hadn’t noticed until that moment that her eyes glowed red when she was using her abilities.Scarlet Witch, indeed. With a floundering hand, he reached up to switch on his headlamp.

Wanda winced at the light, but switched hers on, too. 

“Anything?” he said, and then grimaced at the way his voice echoed in the cavernous fuselage.

“There were people here, but…”

Sam waited, watching the flicker of thought over her face.Maria had explained to them how the plane was handled after they cut Steve out of it; SHIELD teams had systematically dismantled and removed the weapons contained within.Many feet had crossed this deck in that time, which explained the tracks through the dry dusting of snow.Sam wouldn’t be surprised if some of those weapons ended up back in Hydra hands.Even by today’s standards, the weapons Schmidt and Zola built were advanced and difficult to counter. 

There were people who thought Steve could have landed the Valkyrie and secured its cargo for the United States.Even some who questioned his loyalties because he didn’t.Sam had asked Natasha _why_ half-knowing the answer.She told him what she remembered of Steve’s official SHIELD testimony on his battle with Schmidt and the Tesseract.Steve had seen both the scope of the universe and human ingenuity gone wrong in this tin can, and he had saved them from it - at least until 2012, when SHIELD’s own tampering blew the door open.

There was a cube-shaped hole in the deck between his feet.Sam was sure he wasn’t alone in wishing that Howard Stark had never fished the Tesseract from the ocean.

“Only one person has been here recently,” Wanda said, pulling him from his thoughts.

She stepped cautiously toward the control panel, body angling against the plane’s downward slope.Sam followed.He hoped his boots were as non-skid as they claimed to be; the metal flooring was fuzzy with frost.

Wanda approached the pilot’s chair.It was surprisingly untouched, the stiff black leather shining in the light of the headlamp.Wanda used the edge of the seat to steady herself as she climbed over the control panel.Sam did the same.Then they were standing on the windows Steve would have looked out as he guided the plane into the freeze.

He saw the footprints clear as day.Boot-shaped, but squared off, and the spot for the heels was clear and dry because the snow there had evaporated.

“Stark?” 

Wanda nodded.

“What was he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sounding as perplexed as Sam felt.She stepped into his footprints and squatted down.Sam looked over her shoulder.

Their headlamps fell on the window, where Tony’s gauntleted fingers had smoothed snow away to reveal cracked glass.Sam felt like he had been punched in the gut.There was blood.So much blood.A pool of it, long rivulets pushed down by gravity until it froze where it had spidered into the shattered windshield.

He felt hot and sick inside his many layers, and for a second the world swayed.He fought the urge to vomit.

“Sit,” Wanda commanded, voice firm but sympathetic.Sam obeyed, dropping his head between his knees and breathing in lungfuls of air so cold it hurt as it whistled down his trachea.

It had comforted him to think that Steve had been out on impact, the same way it comforted him that Riley was killed instantly when he fell from the sky.It was no real comfort at all but at least they didn’t suffer.There and gone, vessels broken beyond repair.No time for the spirit to realize it was dying.No agony at the changing of states or the end of existence.Just…gnats crushed by the cruel slap of the world.

“Don’t look.” 

He was wearing so much clothing that he could barely feel Wanda’s hand on his back, but he knew it was there and it grounded him.Memories that had not visited him in a long time flared to life now.Flying back to find Riley after the mission was done, tears streaming unchecked down his face.Seeing the scorch on the brown earth and diving toward it.He was totally, utterly unprepared for what he found, for what impact did to a human body, and his mind took a vacation to keep from losing itself altogether.But he remembered the overwhelming smell of blood and dust and the acrid sting of melted electronics.Mangled wings.

After that he hadn’t the strength to wear his wings again, until Steve.He thought maybe it was hero worship, some higher calling, the natural magnetism of Steve’s unflinching resolve, but now he knew it was, quite simply, his own reflection.In Steve he had seen a man as hollowed out by loss as he was and it seemed mad to let him go on like that.So he pushed past the walls, grasped onto that ruined heart and squeezed until it restarted, because if Steve could come back maybe Sam could, too.

Now, sitting here with bile in his throat and acid tears swimming in his eyes, he knew thathe had made it.That his chest was full again.That was why it hurt so bad, knowing Steve had been alone and awake and suffering here.

“Do you love him?” Wanda asked.

“Yes,” he answered, too wrung out to agonize over the confession.Sam was straight and had never had much cause to doubt that, but the simple fact was that Steve was the type of person who made you wonder what it would be like to kiss him regardless of whatever you thought you knew about your sexuality.Even so, a part of him had always known that Steve was not his to kiss.That didn’t mean he fought the pull. 

“He loves you, too,” she said.“He loves all of us.I have never known someone with such capacity for love.He crashed this plane because he loved people too much to let them destroy themselves with Hydra’s tools.”

“Seems like humanity always finds a way,” Sam muttered.The grief was subsiding into something manageable, a dull ache in is gut.“Wanda, if they did things to him…”

“Then we’ll kill them,” she said without hesitation.“All of them.” 

And he knew that she loved him, too, the way she had loved Pietro.

The baldness of her words sprung another stream of memory.Riley reading to him - poetry that was witty before deployment and sobering after, and forever etched into some part of his consciousness when Sam took that book home, his only physical relic of the best friend he ever had.

 

_If you are a monster, stand up._

_If you are a monster, a trickster, a fiend,_

_If you’ve built a steam-powered wishing machine_

_If you have a secret, a dark past, a scheme,_

_If you kidnap maidens or dabble in dreams_

_Come stand by me._

 

_If you have been broken, stand up._

_If you have been broken, abandoned, alone_

_If you have been starving, a creature of bone_

_If you live in a tower, a dungeon, a throne_

_If you weep for wanting, to be held, to be known,_

_Come stand by me._

 

_If you are a savage, stand up._

_If you are a witch, a dark queen, a black knight,_

_If you are a mummer, a pixie, a sprite,_

_If you are a pirate, a tomcat, a wright,_

_If you swear by the moon and you fight the hard fight,_

_Come stand by me._

 

_If you are a devil, stand up._

_If you are a villain, a madman, a beast,_

_If you are a strowler, a prowler, a priest,_

_If you are a dragon come sit at our feast,_

_For we all have stripes, and we all have horns,_

_We all have scales, tails, manes, claws and thorns_

_And here in the dark is where new worlds are born._

_Come stand by me._

 

Sam felt the tears threaten again and moved to get up.Something hard dug into his palm through the glove.He reached down to brush away snow and at first he didn’t see it.But then…

“What is it?” Wanda asked.

Sam picked it up and stared at it in the light.

It was a tooth.

 

 

 

 

Barnes didn’t much care for him, Bruce realized.In part because he was a doctor - he seemed to have an aversion to doctors, though it only took one look at his arm to understand why - but in greater part because of the way he’d hurt Steve.Barnes didn't trust him and resented his influence on Steve’s mood.More that that, he resented the way he had carelessly used that influence to knife Steve between the ribs.Whether he intended it or not didn’t seem to matter.

Steve, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten about it completely.He took to the training with enthusiasm and was willing to assist Bruce and Nafisa however they needed it.Unskilled things at first, like running meds and helping to bathe or toilet people.That made Bruce remember how much he _liked_ Steve, because not for a moment did he think he was too good for it.He got right in there and helped people on the most basic level without so much as a flinch.

In a rare moment of civility, Barnes told him how Steve had helped care for his mother as tuberculosis slowly killed her - possibly the stupidest thing he could have done given his own poor health, but God Himself would not have been able to talk Steve out of it.Bruce believed that.

“She was a nurse,” Barnes said.“A good one.”

“Must be in the blood,” he replied.And _that_ , finally, earned him a glance not etched in ice.

 

 

 

Barnes, with his fear of doctors and surgery, could not do what Steve did.For a few days Bruce struggled to think of what to do beyond making a sentry of him.Barnes kept to the shadows in the meantime.Both he and Steve seemed fine with that and he was certain the hospital had never been safer than it was with him on the prowl.However, Bruce found that he really wanted to give him something meaningful to do for reasons that he didn’t fully understand.

When he figured it out he had to wait until he could get Barnes alone to broach the topic.That was infernally difficult, he realized, because Steve and Barnes weren’t often out of one another’s sight.It was about that time that Bruce figured out they were much more than friends.Seeing them share a quick kiss a few days later only confirmed it.It also gave him his window.When Steve moved away to go tend to a dressing change Bruce had asked him to do earlier, Barnes stayed put for a blessed moment.

His senses were sharp.Blue eyes found Bruce before he even moved.

“Something to say?” Barnes challenged, an edge to his voice.

“Yes.A question, actually.Does your prosthesis come off?”

Barnes blinked, clearly not expecting that to be the subject of conversation.Then his eyes narrowed.“Anything can be separated from a human body if you try hard enough.”

“You know what I mean.Is there an easy way to don and doff it?I figure there has to be, because everything needs repairs eventually.”

“Why do you want to know?”The suspicion in his eyes told Bruce he was losing ground.

“James,” he said, trying the name for the first time, “there are eight new amputees here, children and adults.There’s no one to show them what to do.The physiotherapists have all left or been killed.The only person in this hospital who has any idea what they’re going through is you.” 

Barnes held him in an unwavering stare.Bruce could see the things going on behind his eyes - things Steve would have understood but were indecipherable to him.At last he reached a decision.He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby and then stepped closer.

“There’s a quick release,” he said, low, not wanting anyone but Bruce to hear him.“You should learn it, and Steve, too.There are so many Russians here, God only knows what would happen if—”

“If what?” Bruce prompted.

“If they try to activate me.”

“Wait, that’s still a thing?” Bruce whispered, eyes wide.They had told him one hell of a story after coming back, full of twists and turns that made his head spin, and while he supposed they never said he was cured, they never outright said he wasn’t.Steve had brought a land mine into his hospital.

“Steve can stop me.From what he says, so can you.”He rolled up his sleeve and deactivated the hologram.“But if you can get this thing off and strip me of all my weapons before I go, it will be a lot easier for everyone.”

“And once that’s done, how do I _stop_ you?” Bruce asked, reeling.

“Knock me the hell out,” Barnes said.“Or kill me.”

 

 

 

Maria’s phone rang and it was a serious effort to drag herself out of the depths of research.She didn’t get to the phone until the fifth ring, and even then, she didn’t fully process Sam Wilson’s voice on the other end.

“Did SHIELD fix Steve’s teeth?”

“What?” 

“His teeth.When he came out of the ice, was he missing teeth?”

“No.No, he had a full set, I think.”

“God damn it.Fuck.Fuck me.”

“Why are you asking about his teeth?”The panic in Sam’s tone was starting to sink in.

“Because Wanda and I found three of them in the Valkyrie next to a giant puddle of blood.”

“They could be Schmidt’s,” Maria said automatically.

“He hit the fucking windshield at a hundred miles an hour, Maria.”

“I don’t—” she stammered, “it’s not like I looked in his mouth, I don’t know for sure.”

“Find the records,” Sam said, voice flat.“Find them now.”

“I don’t know if I can, they weren’t in the Insight dump.The government probably has them.”

“Walter Reed.That lady on TV said they did scans of him at Walter Reed.”

“I can’t request Steve’s medical records, they’d never give them to me.He has to do it himself.”

Sam laughed tonelessly.“Great, just great.The only problem with that is that he’s not answering me.Texts, calls, e-mails, he’s not answering.I have no idea where he is.No one’s heard from him or Barnes since they left Standing Rock.That was almost two weeks ago.”

“Shit,” she breathed.“Okay.The teeth - are they intact?Roots?”

“One of them, maybe.I don’t know, I’m not a dentist.”

“I just happen to know one.Bring them here.Maybe we can find a way to get DNA, to know if they’re Steve’s or not.”

“If I may, Miss Hill,” Friday interrupted, loud enough for Sam to hear.“Mr. Stark has already accessed Captain Rogers’ medical records from Walter Reed.”

“He _what?”_ Sam said murderously.

“On November 10th, 2016, he hacked their electronic medical record and obtained all imaging and physician documentation that pertained to one Steven Grant Rogers.I believe his aim was to confirm the testimony of the woman to which Airman Wilson refers.”

“I’m going to kill him,” said Airman spat.

“Friday, can you display the records?”

“Of course.”

Maria turned to her data board and dozens of x-rays and scans popped up, with typed reports tabulated next to them.

“Sort,” she said.“Give me anything head and neck.”

There.Non-contrast Head CT.When she touched it, it set into motion, animated slices of the entirety of Steve’s skull.When it got down to his jaw there was no mistaking it;there were three - no, _four_ , teeth in his mouth that were not original.Three in the front and one left bottom molar.

“Maria?” Sam prompted.

She clicked the report.

 

_No evidence of acute calvarial or skull base fracture._

 

_Noted are acute facial fractures as follows: right lateral orbital wall, right orbital floor blowout without evidence of entrapment, comminuted right zygomatic arch fracture._

 

_Thin area of acute right frontotemporal subdural hematoma without mass effect or midline shift._

 

_Multiple old fractures evident.Briefly: bilateral frontal bones, right temporal bone extending into auditory canal, left parietal bone, foramen magnum, bilateral orbits, bilateral nasal bones, all bony sinuses, cribiform plate, Lefort I,Lefort II, mandibular body, zygomaticomaxillary complex, Type II dens fracture without evidence of surgical intervention.Remodeling indicates concurrent fracture and healing suggestive of at least two episodes of severe blunt force trauma.Survivability in non-enhanced human questionable._

 

“Maria!” Sam barked.

“I’m sorry, I was…” she trailed off, horrified.She knew Nick had ordered imaging on him but he never said anything.He never said Steve was so _broken_.

“Maria, please.”

“It’s…he’s definitely had some dental work done,” she finished weakly. 

“How many teeth?”

“Four.Three in the front, one molar.”

“Four?We only found three, and no molars.”He sighed, and she could almost picture him pacing.“And there’s no way to know if SHIELD did it, short of finding the records or asking Steve himself?”

“I could ask Fury, but…” Maria laughed, feeling a bit hysterical, “Steve didn’t want me to share information about this with him, so I deleted all his contact information.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Natasha may have it.Otherwise…” she sighed, “he’ll text or call me eventually.But that could be tomorrow, or in three months.”

“I’ll ask Natasha.It’s the only course of action we have right now.”

“Not entirely.Bring me the teeth.I know a dentist.Maybe he can figure something out from the teeth and the imaging.I don’t know, give us _something_ to work with until we hear from Steve.”

“What if—”

“No,” she said.

“But—”

“ _No_.”

“Okay, but how long are we going to wait before we go looking for him?”

Maria looked at the desk calendar.December 18.

“Christmas.”

“All right,” Sam said.“Christmas.”

 

 

 

As soon as she hung up with Sam, Natasha pulled up Nick Fury’s phone number.She dialed without hesitation.All she got was a recorded voice saying the number was no longer in service.

She sat down, elbows on her knees and the end of the phone pressed to her forehead.Then she scrolled through her messages to find the last ones from both James and Steve.

Steve’s was a picture, a snapshot of a sketch he’d done of her looking annoyed, titled ‘RBF’.Resting Bitch Face.He thought the phrase was amusing, particularly because James sometimes suffered from RBF, as well.She had texted back ‘U mean Russian Best Friend?’He responded with a laughing emoji, and that was it.Nothing else since December 5, even after she texted to compliment him on his mural in Sioux Falls. 

James had also last texted on December 5.It was nothing more than a terse ‘On the road again’, followed by ‘Да́льше с глаз, бли́же к се́рдцу’.

She texted both of them again, not expecting a response.She wasn’t as worried as Sam.Not yet, anyway.But the thing with the teeth…

She was an orphan, once.Te poorest of the poor.No dentist had looked at her teeth until she was twelve.It didn’t take a genius to know that an already poor kid in Brooklyn who also had the misfortune to be alive during the Great Depression had no chance in hell of ever seeing a dentist.Didn’t matter how many fights he picked.Either SHIELD had done that dental work, or someone else had.

She ran her tongue over her teeth.Almost perfect now.Decidedly not, back then.The tip of her tongue rested against the point of her canine.

Time to move up the schedule of Helmut Zemo’s demise.But first…she scrolled through her phone for someone else.Sharon answered in three rings.

“Natasha?”

“Hi, Sharon.”

“Is everything all right?” she asked.Usually they texted; only serious matters warranted an actual phone call.

“Unclear.”

“What can I do?”

“I need Steve’s medical records.Everything, but especially right after he came out of the ice.Know where they might be?”

She exhaled.“Not exactly, no.Have you tried Fury?”

“Yes.Can’t reach him.”

“Maria Hill?”

“She’s on board, but can’t get access.Can you at least give me an idea where the files could be?”

“SHIELD’s highly classified documents that weren’t in the Insight dump are now held by the CIA.Probably gathering dust in some basement.”

“You have any friends who can give you a little more detail?Even just what building they’re in?I happen to know a guy who can make himself really, really small.”

“Isn’t that convenient.”She could hear the smile in Sharon’s voice, smoothing away the tension.It didn’t last.“What’s happening, Nat?Why do you need his records?”

“We have reason to believe Hydra might have gotten to him long before we did.”

“And the answer is in his medical records?”

“Might be.”

Her voice turned hard.“Give me 36 hours.” 

 

 

 

Bruce couldn’t believe how good both men were at the jobs they had been given.Steve was starting IVs, doing wound care, setting simple fractures (nothing like the super soldier traction treatment), and sometimes even assisting with surgery.He’d worried about qualifications but quickly realized that qualified professionals were in short supply.Regular people had to take up the slack and he was glad to do it, learning everything he could from Nafisa and Bruce.

For his part, Bruce did have a medical degree but no license to speak of; he had stopped renewing it after Hulk, afraid he’d lose control and hurt someone.It was only in the last few years that he understood that the need to stay calm and rational so he could keep other people from dying actually suppressed the Hulk.Steve told him he was crazy for putting himself in such a stressful environment but he had it backwards, as people so often did.

Barnes was astoundingly good with the amputees.He rarely wore the prosthesis during daylight hours, knowing that they had to see someone like themselves navigating life in order to feel empowered.He’d gone several months without the prosthesis after waking in Wakanda and there was almost nothing he couldn’t do one handed.If it required two hands he used his mouth or his legs or sometimes his feet.He was a very resourceful man.

The process of removing and reapplying the arm had built a sort of truce between him and Bruce.Sometimes Steve did it, but more often it was Bruce.He suspected it was because Steve knew he would appreciate the technology more.

Where Steve and James went at night, and what they got up to, he had no idea.Some of it was probably sex but they could have done that here - no travel required.Personally he didn’t know where they got the energy for anything else.Serum or not, Bruce was tired at the end of the day and slept hard. 

That morning he could see that Steve had not slept, and that there was paint on his hands.He was sharp and cheerful anyway, snapping on a pair of gloves to suture up a gash in a man’s forehead after a cinderblock had fallen on him.Fortunately it was only a glancing blow, and the worst of it was a concussion and ten stitches.

“You’re really good at this,” Bruce said when he was done.

“My mother was a nurse,” Steve replied.

“James told me.You do her proud.” 

Steve was pointedly looking down at the prep table he was cleaning, jaw clenched.

“If this ever blows over,” Bruce said tentatively, “you should go to school.Make it official.”

At that Steve laughed and shook his head.“Bruce, I didn’t even finish high school.I had to drop out when my mother died.I at least made it to the last year.Bucky had to drop out at sixteen.”

“It’s pretty easy to get your GED.”

“I guess,” he shrugged.“But I doubt I’m smart enough for college.”

“Like hell you’re not,” Bruce said, bothered by the self-deprecation and the _acceptance_ in his voice.“You’re smart, Steve, _really smart._ So what if it’s not theoretical physics?That doesn’t save peoples’ lives too often.”

“All right, so I’m smart in some ways.Great.But this,” he gestured, a sweep of his wrist, “this is never going to blow over.You must know that.”

Bruce blew out a sigh.“I do, but that doesn’t mean you can’t walk away.I did.”

“I’m not made for walking away.”A smile tweaked Steve’s lips.“Bucky would say I’m better at running into the fire instead of away from it, like an idiot.”

“The world needs firemen.It needs nurses, too.”

He said nothing.The world needed both, but it was clear that Steve didn’t think he could _be_ both.But then why was he here, soaking up skills like a sponge?

“Are you ever going to come back?” Steve asked, quiet, without expectation.

“No,” Bruce replied.“Barring the apocalypse.”

Steve sighed and tilted his head back.“Look around you, Bruce,” he said, raising both arms to the sagging, tarp-patched ceiling.“We’re here.”He stepped around the fresh patch of blood on the floor and strode away through rows of sick and wounded and dying, hands in pockets and head down. 

 

 

 

He sought Bucky and was glad he did.The conversation with Bruce unsettled him.Maybe he was just tired; they had been out all night, and only gotten a few hours of sleep the two days before that.Bruce wasn’t the first who suggested he pursue his education.Usually it was Sam pestering him.He missed Sam.

It was impossible to reach out, though.The cell towers were down and as soon as power, and by proxy the wifi, went on, the bandwidth was completely jammed. The power was only on for a few hours a day and in the hospital that power had to go to the tools and machines they needed for surgery.Bucky’s phone had died two days ago ago.Steve’s was still going on Power Save mode but it was down to 13%.He only used it to take pictures and for the one song a day he and Bucky listened to as they fell asleep.

Bucky was with his favorite patient.She was eight, a little sprite named Zara who had lost her left arm midway up the forearm.Currently, she was hanging off his right arm like a monkey with her right hand and left elbow hooked around his bicep.She giggled as he swung her around, trying to dislodge her.It was strengthening disguised as a game; he was good at that. 

He was laughing, too, egging her on in Arabic.Steve understood some of what he said; he wasn’t so bad at languages, himself, and could carry on brief conversations pretty easily now.Watching them play released the tension from Steve’s shoulders.It reminded him of Bucky and his sister, back in the day.

He already knew that Bucky wasn’t going to be able to leave Zara behind.Bucky had not arrived at that realization himself but he would.The girl’s entire family had been killed in the bombing that took her hand and broke most of her ribs.She had been here almost a month before they even arrived.There was nowhere for her to go.At least nowhere Steve cared to think about.

He perked up as he heard Bucky say his name.All of a sudden Zara was running for him, and he scooped her up.She was a ball of light, happy in spite of all the terrible things that had happened to her, and Steve wondered why he and Bucky couldn't seem to do what an eight year old could. 

He’d never quite known what to do with children, being an only child with no other family and living in a time when his peers were more likely to die on foreign soil than procreate at home.Sure, he’d held plenty of kids for pictures on his tours across the country and managed just fine on Sesame Street after thawing out, but that was different.He’d never had the chance to spend time with children, to see how quickly they became attached and how wild their imaginations could be.Zara was talking non-stop and he only caught about half of it, but what he did understand had to do with the snow.

It was supposed to start snowing tomorrow and the children were the only ones who were excited.Everyone else knew that snow meant cold, dark, and wind, wet feet and raw cheeks and sleep lost.Maybe that was another reason his mood took an abrupt dive.

Ah, but to Zara it meant snowmen and snow angels and snowball fights, catching flakes on the tip of your tongue and watching the delicate structures melt away on your fingertips.Steve thought about how her snow angel would have one wing shorter and smaller than the other, kind of like Nemo in that cartoon movie about the clownfish.Bucky’s would only have one wing, period.His would be the whole one, and he would have to carry them.For so many years Bucky carried him; it was the least he could do.

Bucky was looking at him and Steve swallowed, realizing Zara had her arms about his neck and her cheek to his.She did this to Bucky sometimes, endlessly amused by the rough stubble that he supposed was now rightfully a beard, but she had never done it to him.

“ _Naeam_ ,” she said.He looked to Bucky, unsure of what that meant.

“Soft,” he supplied, a trace of a smile on his lips because he knew it to be true. 

Steve tucked the word away in his brain, always glad to grow his vocabulary.He picked up a lock of the girl’s hair and repaid the compliment, and then pulled it across her face beneath her nose to make a mustache. 

“ _Sharib latifa_ ,” he said.

She burst into giggles and hopped down from his arms.She spent the remainder of the day showing everyone her ‘mustache’, taking it a step further and drawing one on with a surgical marker, which prompted an almighty fight when Nafisa removed it with rubbing alcohol.When asked who had given her the idea Zara singled him right out, which led to a great deal of mocking about how Steve liked his women.Naturally, Bucky thought this was hilarious, and even Bruce fought a smile on several occasions.He had figured out that neither Steve nor Bucky were remotely interested in women at the moment, mustachioed or not.

As he and Bucky prepared for bed that night, Bucky turned to him, thoughtful.Steve returned his inquisitive look, but Bucky wasn’t ready to talk yet, so he continued with their routine.It was mostly a process of figuring out how best to bundle together to keep the heat in.Once that was accomplished, Steve would fish out the earbuds.Depending how long their daily song was, the phone’s battery would drop one or two percent.Soon it would be in single digits.There was a rumor going around, though, that maybe on Christmas they’d leave the power on all day and they might have a chance of charging both phones and sending out a message or two.He settled around Bucky, big spoon tonight, lips against his hair, and hit shuffle.

The song began and Steve let himself drift.But a minute later Bucky pulled out the earbuds and turned, letting a shock of cold air into their cocoon.Steve cursed and tried to pause the song so their one bit of music wouldn’t be wasted, but the space within the sleeping bag was comically small and Bucky’s movement trapped his hand between them.Not that he minded Bucky wriggling against him, really.

“One of the amputees,” he said, “he was a jeweler before.Made it and sold it.Lucky for him he lost a leg and not an arm.” 

Funny, what the definition of luck was, these days.Steve kept quiet, knowing he wasn’t finished.

“He’s been making things out of whatever he can find to stay busy.Pass the time.Doesn’t take much, just heat and some tools.”He dug his hand into his sweatshirt and pulled out a fine chain that Steve hadn’t noticed through the layers of clothing and his hair - longer than it had been, months ago, when he first set foot in his living room.The chain was looped through two rings.“He made these for us.”

Steve extracted his arm and cradled the rings in his palm.They were rough, flat, textured bands made of metal.Great care had been taken in melting and reforming them.Bucky slid the chain from around his neck and opened it.

“They’re beautiful.What are they made of?”

The corner of Bucky’s lip rose in a wry half-smile.“Shell casings.”

Steve chuckled.“Sweet are the uses of adversity,” he murmured.

Bucky’s fingers gathered one of the rings, leaving the second in Steve’s open hand.“I don’t know if it’ll fit.Had to guess at the size.Omar will fix it if it’s not right.”

Steve dipped his fourth finger into the ring.It slid on easily and settled beneath the second knuckle.It was the tiniest bit loose, but his hands were cold; it was perfect.

“Wrong hand, pal,” Bucky said.

“No,” he replied.“It’s the right one.”He took the second ring from Bucky and placed a kiss against each fingertip of his right hand before slipping the ring on.

“But it’s supposed to be…” Bucky started, oddly breathless.

“I don’t care what it’s supposed to be.This is what it _is_.”

Bucky’s eyes went dark and hot, and in that moment, Steve knew that tonight they were going to find their warmth in the oldest way there was.

 

 

Bruce never slept without checking the perimeter, though he knew Barnes had been doing it several times a day since arriving.As he did so he realized he didn’t really know where Steve and James bedded down because they never stayed in the building at night.But the snow and the way Steve looked today - like he hadn’t slept in a week - made him hope they decided to stay in.

It soon became abundantly clear that they had, but they weren’t sleeping.  It was dark and they were inside the sleeping bag so he was spared the more graphic visuals, but it was obvious from the heavy breathing and the entangling of their bodies that they were making love.For some godforsaken reason he _couldn’t look away_. Maybe because it had been so long since he saw people writhe in pleasure instead of pain, or claw at one another in something that wasn’t combat.He didn’t for a moment think that what they did now wasn’t a matter of life or death, though.They kissed as if to share lifebreath, drew tongues and teeth across flesh for nourishment.What they did…it was sustenance in a world with neither bread nor sanity.

_He deserves it.They deserve it._

Bruce smiled to himself and turned away.

 

 

 

They woke naked but roasting in the sleeping bag.Steve felt more rested than he had in weeks, in part because they had slept much longer than usual.As they emerged he saw why; someone had put what was effectively a Do Not Disturb sign outside their sleeping area.Never mind that it was a glorified broom closet whose door had long since been sacrificed for firewood.

The promised snow had come and it was still going.As a result things were calm and relatively quiet.No one wanted to venture outside, though as snowstorms went, it was mild.

Steve took his time and checked in with Bruce after noon.Things were under control so he wasn’t surprised when he was told to take the day off.Bruce kept smiling at him and he had a feeling he knew who put up the Do Not Disturb barricade.Bruce smiled even more when he noticed the ring. 

He and Bucky spent the day with Zara, braving the snow even though it went without saying that they’d both had enough cold for a lifetime.The girl’s delight was worth the chill.Toward the end of the day she and Bucky mutinied against him and tied his left hand behind his back, and laughed at him when he couldn’t do _anything_ without help _._ Then it was Nafisa smiling at them and Steve had to admit something to himself.

Bucky wasn’t the only one who would have a hard time leaving Zara behind.

 

 

 

Maria loitered in the waiting room of Hamid’s practice.Waiting for him to finish up with his last patient, who had arrived twenty minutes late, was torture.Sam had dropped off the teeth earlier, and she had Steve’s scans on her thumb drive.She had no idea if Hamid would be able to help, but it was worth a try.

The tardy patient emerged fifteen minutes later with standard issue toothbrush printed with Hamid’s name and office number and whatever brand of toothpaste had sent samples that month.At last Hamid emerged, smiling warmly.

“Hello, my beauty,” he said, bending to kiss her on the cheek.“Sorry for the wait.”

“Do you say that to all your female patients?” Maria returned, fighting the blush that crept up her cheeks.

“Some of the males, too,” he replied with a wink.“But you’re not my patient.At least I hope you’re not here for an exam.”

“No.”She flashed her meticulously cared-for teeth - something he had commented on during their first date, of course.

“Come on.My office is messy, don’t judge me.”He led her back behind the reception area to a room three doors down on the right.It had good light from the window, a few plants that were hard to kill, and journal articles scattered over most of the desk.It was, perhaps, unfair to say he was just a dentist; he was an _enthusiastic_ dentist, dedicated to representing and advancing the profession.Mission accomplished, if his Yelp reviews were anything to go by.

“What’s this you need help with?” he asked, clearing a stack of journals from a chair so she could sit.

Maria sat and crossed her legs.She considered the man across from her and debated how much she should tell him.He wasn’t stupid; he’d put things together in time.Nick wouldn’t even have entertained the idea of bringing a civilian dentist in on this sort of investigation.But if Hamid’s reaction to meeting Tony Stark was any indication of his level of interest in the Avengers, he might be the best person for the job. 

“This is…work-related,” she started, “and absolutely cannot leave this room.In fact…”She paused to pull up a white noise app on her phone and put it by the door.“That’s better.”

“I’m honored that you trust me,” he replied, suddenly very serious.And it was things like that that made her really, really like him.

“Two things.One, I have teeth in this bag.I wanted to know if there was anything you could do to help identify whose mouth they came out of.And two, I have imaging.I need to know anything you can tell me about the work this person has had done on his teeth.”

“Okay.”He held out his hand for the teeth, which Maria surrendered.He put on gloves without even being asked, and she was just a little more enamored for it.“Just plain teeth, I can’t tell who they came from without DNA.You can pull DNA from teeth, genomic or mitochondrial, in a lot of instances.You’ve got a better chance the more intact the tooth is.”He shook the teeth out of the bag onto a small try lined with paper. 

She hadn’t really looked at them, but it felt a little strange, thinking that these were, possibly, meant to be in Steve’s mouth and not sitting here on a table.

“Incisors,” he murmured.“This person took quite a hit.This one still has the root.The other two, it looks like they broke off almost at the gum line.It could be possible to get DNA from all three, but you’ve got the best chance with the least damaged one.”

“Can you do that here?”

He shook his head.“No.I do know a forensic dentist, though.Should I call her?”

“I’m not sure.”

Hamid nodded.“The imaging?”

Maria pulled the thumb drive out of her pocket and handed it to him.He plugged it into his computer and then sent it over to a bigger monitor.She had been careful to blur out any identifying information; Steve deserved at least a _tiny_ bit of privacy.

Hamid was frowning.

“What?”

“How _old_ is this person?” he asked.

“Um,” she said, surprised at how quickly he knew this wasn’t a young man he was looking at.“Ninety eight.”

He looked at her, but didn’t ask.“Well, I don’t know if you need to bother with the DNA.These are the same three teeth that this person had knocked out.It seems like you already know who he is.”

“We had an idea, but couldn’t be sure.How did you know he was older?”

“The implants,” Hamid said, pointing.“This style was used in the thirties up through the late forties.Before bone grafting, before titanium.They were made of something called vitallium.They still use it for some things, but it doesn’t integrate with natural bone quite as well as titanium.It’s impressive that this man’s implants look this good.His bone density is incredible for someone pushing one hundred.” 

_His bone density isn’t the only incredible thing about him,_ she thought.

“What about this one?” Maria asks, pointing at the fourth tooth on the bottom left.

“It’s just a crown.No root canal, even.I don't know what material that’s made out of, it doesn’t look right.Like the inside is hollow or something.”

“Do you think that could have been knocked out in the same trauma that knocked out the three incisors?”

He shrugged.“If I don’t know what the trauma was, I can’t say.”

Maria chewed her lip.“How about…a plane crash?”

Hamid stared at her.“A ninety-eight year old who survived a plane crash.With dental implants from the thirties and forties.”

“Confidentiality, Hamid,” she reminded him, even though it was clear that he had figured out whose teeth were on his table.

“Right,” he said, eyes wide.“Right.Um.”He gathered his thoughts.“I did one rotation in dental school at a Level I trauma center.If I learned anything from that, besides how to fish someone’s tooth out of their sinus cavity, it’s that it all depends on where the force comes out.Kind of like entrance and exit wounds for people who are shot or struck by lightning.Two people can take the same hit and present with different injuries because of variations in force and anatomy.I can’t conclusively tell you whether that fourth tooth was damaged in the crash or not.All I know is that he took a nasty hit and broke a hell of a lot of things in his head.His teeth were the least of his worries, Maria.”

“I gathered that from the report,” she sighed.“Hamid.When he’s back, can I bring him here?It’s…you know the situation.I can go elsewhere.”

“Are you asking me if you can bring Captain A—”

“ _Confidentiality,”_ she overrode him sharply, exasperated.

He winced.“Sorry.Sorry.Yes.Bring him here.Please bring him here.”

“You know he’s a fugitive and if anyone ever finds out that you helped him, you’re in big trouble, right?”

“Uh huh.”He sounded serious, but looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I shouldn’t even be _asking_ you this, I could ruin your career and your life,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.

“I know it’s for a good reason,” he said.“Anything I can do to help, I want to do.It’s only right.”Hamid reached out to put his hand over hers.“Maria, I know there is more to the story than what they’ve shown on the news, and I think he was right to stand against the Sokovia Accords.There’s as much anti-mutant and anti-enhanced rhetoric out there as there is anti-Muslim rhetoric.Those Accords are a slippery slope for your friends and things will only get worse for Muslims next month.”He sighed, looked at his brown hand twined against her pale fingers.“He won’t let the government take his freedom away simply for being what he is, and I know he won’t let them take mine, either.There is no price on that.I’m honored to help.”

Maria smiled and gave him a soft kiss.  She could only hope Steve and James would resurface soon, and that Sam's worries were unfounded.

 

 

WIDOW: _Are we ready to move on Zemo?_

WITCH: _Yes, all I have to do is inform my associates._

WIDOW: _Do it._

WITCH: _Sam will ask questions._

WIDOW: _Let me handle that._

 

 

 

The warehouse was dark and drafty, and Natasha felt instantly at home.Not for the first time, she wondered what the shady people of the world, herself included, would do if not for abandoned warehouses.The Sokovians - five men looking like a mean, ragtag SHIELD STRIKE team - had already roughed up Zemo a bit.He appeared unfazed in spite of the black eye and the trail of blood down his chin.

“Ah,” he said, “behold the true architects.”His accented voice was cocky but his eyes were flat.He was thin.Natasha knew it wasn’t prison; it was the strain of being forced to lived with his demons when he expected to be dead.She knew the feeling intimately.

“You could say these gentlemen had similar interests,” she replied.She would do the dance a little bit if it helped to get what she wanted.

“You know,” he said, conversationally, “they allow me two hours of television a day.Captain Rogers has been causing quite a stir, hasn’t he?I imagine Mr. Stark does not care for it.”

“What he cares for may surprise you,” Wanda said.Natasha glanced at her.Wanda might know more about how Tony felt than anyone except Pepper.She’d cultivated his nightmares, after all, and he hers.

“So we wait for the titans to cease their clash while the world implodes, is that it?” Zemo chuckled softly.“Why are you here, Ms. Maximoff?Do you imagine yourself to be better than me?”

“No,” she said.“And that is exactly why I’m here.”

Natasha pulled up a chair and sat on it backwards, chest to the metal back, facing him.“Our questions are simple.Answer them to our satisfaction and maybe you go back to prison with nothing but a few broken bones.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then Wanda finds the answers inside your head.”She let her voice drop, half truth, half threat.“Trust me, it doesn’t feel good.” 

His eyes jumped to Wanda.They could both see how she _itched_.There was still something wild in her, some vengeful spirit.And why not?Her family was gone, first in the war, then Ultron.Just when she’d built a new family for herself, Zemo arrived and tore it all to shreds.She wanted him to suffer, and frankly, so did Natasha.But there was time for that afterward.

Zemo wouldn’t deny them.He knew what Wanda could do - what she _would_ do, if he didn’t cooperate.He didn’t want her in his mind; he feared that more than pain or death.A moment later he tore his eyes from his compatriot and focused on Natasha.

“What is it that you want to know?”

“How and where did you get the information necessary to activate the Winter Soldier?” she asked.“Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.If I think you’re lying, we’ll turn your mind inside out until we find the truth.Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Start talking.”

A smirk pulled at his lips.“It was you.”

Natasha stared at him.She wanted to punch him, to jab a razor blade into the smarmy corner of his mouth and drag it until the muscles beneath could no longer smile, but she knew that was what he wanted.She wouldn’t rise to the bait.

“Are you not taking this seriously, Helmut?”She leaned closer.“Do you need a demonstration of what’s going to happen if you fuck with us?”

“I am very serious, Miss Romanov.After Sokovia, I devoted most of my time to trying to think of a way to destroy the Avengers.The Project Insight data dump, which you so kindly released to the public, contained a document about the transfer of the Winter Soldier after the collapse of the Soviet Union.I knew that the Winter Soldier nearly killed Captain America; if he was capable of that, he could have killed most of you with the right planning.It was strange to me, that the Russian branch of Hydra would release such a valuable weapon.”

“He’s a _man_ ,” Wanda growled.“Not a thing.” 

“You’ve never seen him activated,” Zemo replied.“Truly an efficient tool, and that was why I wondered.Why would the Russians give him up?Certainly not out of the goodness of their hearts.Then I thought, why do we give anything up?Why get rid of something that still works?”

Natasha knew the answer.“Because there’s a newer, better version.”

He nodded.“Originally, I just wanted him, or whatever the Russians had replaced him with.I was going to set him loose with the mission to eliminate the Avengers in any way possible.I didn’t know who he was until I found Karpov.”Zemo’s eyes met hers.“You know of him, I trust?”

“Yes.”She had to school her voice into casual interest.She knew Vasily Karpov, all right.“You found him?”

“I did.And I found out why they gave the Winter Soldier away.Do you know what Howard Stark was working on before he died, ten days before the official dissolution of the Soviet Union?” 

It had always seemed fairly obvious why Tony’s father would have been a target.He was as much a genius as Tony and had no qualms about specializing in advanced weaponry and defense.Natasha assumed that if Hydra couldn’t turn him, they would want him dead so his creations could never threaten them.But the way Zemo asked his question, and the topic at hand…

“I can guess,” she said, grim. 

“The serum,” Wanda said, her eyes widening.“We assumed they had synthesized their own.That they used whatever James had been given.”

Zemo shook his head slowly.“It seems Stark finally managed to duplicate Erskine’s formula, 49 years later.” 

“There’s no record of that in any SHIELD or Hydra documentation,” Natasha protested, frowning.

“There wouldn’t be.It was a private project.Stark was _consumed_ with recreating his dear friend Captain America.He spent more time on that than with his own son.I do regret not telling them, in Siberia.”He glanced up at Natasha.“Can you smell Stark’s jealousy when you stand close?Or the Captain’s guilt?”He didn’t wait for an answer because he knew he wouldn’t get one.“Howard Stark was headed to a meeting with the Secretary of Defense that night.Do you know who held that post, then?”

It hit her like a bucket of icy water.“Alexander Pierce.”

He nodded.

“Hydra is one organization, yes, but not immune to international politics.You could say there was…sibling rivalry.Karpov and the Russians were feeling the sting of their empire crumbling, the end of the Cold War they’d cultivated so carefully.They had learned much from the Second World War, Korea, Vietnam, but still people fought for their freedom, and Mother Russia took the hit.It was a turning point for them.One in which they began to pursue their own interests, beyond the scope of Hydra.”Zemo breathed a humorless chuckle.“Pierce wasn’t careful enough.He let slip that he was meeting with Stark - that Stark claimed to have had a breakthrough with the Super Soldier Serum.It found its way to Karpov and he immediately sent the Winter Soldier to kill Stark and retrieve all of his research.No one knew he had already made the serum until the Soldier brought it back with him, and Karpov wasn’t fool enough to make the same mistake as Pierce.Pierce was suspicious, of course, but he had no proof.The Russians had been cleaning up after the Winter Soldier for decades.There was nothing to find.Nothing to say it wasn’t just a car accident that killed Stark.”

Natasha shook her head.She had no trouble believing Karpov was capable of both masterminding something so brilliant and betraying his own organization in one fell swoop.He was a special kind of ruthless.

“He told you all this?” she asked, brow raised.

“The boxes and boxes of files behind a trick wall in his basement told me all this.Mr. Karpov himself was…not so talkative.”

Dead, then.“I imagine not.”Natasha stood and walked a slow circle around Zemo.“How does the story end?” 

“To quiet Pierce, they sent him the Soldier himself, but only after they made him train his own replacements at the hidden base in Siberia.Then they cast him off to the very man they’d double-crossed.The peace was kept and the Winter Soldier lived to see another day even though he was obsolete.Unfortunately, Pierce was a much crueler master than Karpov.Karpov was ruthless in pursuit of discipline and obedience, but in conditioning there is also reward, and it cannot be overlooked.Pierce just wanted to hurt.To humiliate.Deep down he knew what had been taken from him, and by whom.So the desire to punish came to outweigh caution and good sense.It disrupted the Soldier's programming, but of course he was only ever awake for a short time; he broke down in increments.Even broken he was effective, and with the manpower of SHIELD they didn’t have to send him out alone and risk catastrophic malfunction.”

He paused.“It irked him, you know.That the thing he’d given away was perfect and he had to watch Pierce ruin his hard work.And the ones he made the sacrifice for were too unstable to be of any use.They couldn’t be controlled.Not like your friend.”

“Turns out people don’t like being controlled,” she replied coldly.She was beginning to feel the low boil of Wanda’s anger.She had been someone’s project, once.Another perfect weapon.

“Hydra finally understood that with Project Insight, but it was the last straw.They knew Captain Rogers was a point of weakness for the Soldier.Karpov’s instructions explicitly said to avoid the name, the image, anything to do with Captain America.And yet Pierce sent him right into his star-spangled arms, not once, not twice, but three times.It all fell apart.” 

“How terrible,” Wanda said.Her eyes were glowing red with anger. 

Zemo tilted his head in ambiguous sentiment.“Karpov went into hiding.If the Winter Soldier wanted vengeance, he would come for the man who had broken him.I found him first.I read every file he had, watched every film, looked at every microfiche.I realized I could do better than just sending the Winter Soldier to kill you, because of who he was and what he’d done.I could set you all up to kill each other.I just had to find him.”He sighed.“You know the rest.” 

“Didn’t quite work out the way you wanted, did it,” she said. 

“No,” he agreed.“I had high hopes for Leipzig but none of you fought to kill.Only one injury, and Colonel Rhodes is perhaps the least odious of all of you.Siberia, though…”His eyes glazed over with a sustaining pleasure from which he drew the will to live.“You didn’t see them fight.Stark would have killed them both if he could.I dream about it sometimes.Captain Rogers cradling his dead best friend.Choking on his own blood after charging at Stark and getting a laser through the chest for his efforts.And Tony Stark the last man standing, until he realized what he had done.I like to think that he might have killed himself after.I don’t know.It’s more likely he would have lied.Made himself the hero.Seven super soldiers in their graves at the hands of Iron Man.”

“You didn’t think Steve could beat him,” she breathed, horrified at the picture Zemo painted even thought it didn’t turn out that way.

“I confess you’re right.I made the same mistake as your friend Karpov.I put my faith in something newer and shinier.I forgot that the hardest soldier to kill is the oldest one.”

“There weren’t many old soldiers in Sokovia,” Wanda said flatly.

He said something to her in Sokovian, then.It was one of the few languages Natasha had no proficiency in.Whatever he said, it seemed to calm Wanda; she responded in kind, and after a long silence, her shoulders relaxed.

“What did Karpov’s files say about Captain Rogers?” she asked.

“Only what I’ve already told you.Who he was to the Winter Soldier, and that he should never be mentioned.”

“And you viewed all the files?” Wanda pressed.

“All that were there.” 

“What happened to them?” Natasha asked, already knowing the answer.

“I burned them, along with the house and Karpov’s body.Everything except the book.The American government holds that now.”

“The book?”

He looked out into the darkness of the warehouse, walls swallowed by the rapid dusk.

“The user manual.”

James was right to worry.As long as that book existed and the tenth trigger remained a mystery, he could be activated.Natasha had to pace to dispel her nerves, which were substantial.Zemo had given them a lot of information and none of it shed any light on their predicament.

“Are they lovers?” Zemo asked suddenly.“The Captain and the Soldier?”

“What difference does it make?” Natasha said tiredly.

“It makes all the difference in the world when you need to win a fight.”

“Do all cold-blooded killers wax poetic about love?” Wanda bit off.

“We have our weaknesses.”He thought for a moment, and then spoke carefully.“Governments, in particular, like weapons.”

“While I appreciate your concern, it comes a little late, doesn’t it?” Natasha said, a decision solidifying in her bones.“You had no qualms about using our friend for your own ends.And now you know that he loves someone and someone loves him, but would that have stopped you?”

“No,” he admitted, unabashed.

Natasha reached into an interior pocket of her jacket and pulled out a thumb drive.She handed it to Wanda.

“That drive contains an electronic version of a file I put together a while back.It was all the information I could find on the Winter Soldier after the Insight dump.Everything Hydra did to him is there, in excruciating detail.I’m sure it’s missing bits and pieces, but after a while it’s all the same.”She took hold of Zemo’s jaw.“We’re not going to kill you.Neither are they.”She nodded toward the Sokovian men.“But you’re not going back to your little glass box, either.They’re going to take you somewhere else, and they’re going to work their way through that file until you’ve suffered through everything James has.Maybe then we’ll talk about putting you out of your misery.”

He was pale, but he was also looking at Natasha like he wanted to eat her.It _aroused_ him, to be beaten at his own game.She didn’t begrudge him the pleasure; it was the last he’d know for a long, long time.

“A revenge worthy of the Black Widow and the Scarlet Witch,” he breathed.

“And the Winter Soldier,” Wanda said softly, before enunciating in his face, “Rot in hell.”

 

 

Christmas Eve rolled around and things stayed quiet.But there was a Russian occupying cot 14 whose eyes weren’t as practiced at subterfuge as many of the other people in the field hospital.Steve had noticed his glance immediately, felt the recognition in the eyes boring into his back.He was content to ignore it until those eyes fell on Bucky and _knew_.

So that night, cold air nipping at the edges of everything, Steve pulled up a battered stool next to the Russian’s bed.He had fallen from a second story balcony and broken both of his legs.They’d done surgery on one leg yesterday and the other would heal on its own, in time.He was laid up here until a helicopter could be spared to lift him out.

His eyes - hazel, paintable - grew huge.Steve held his gaze.He had learned so much from so many people, Nick, Natasha, and Bucky especially; he could wall himself off now, dash the emotion, the very _life_ from his gaze.That was what he did.Held that boy’s eyes, cold and inscrutable and _lethal._

Two minutes later he moved.The other man reacted as if Steve was going to strike him.His hands flew up to protect his head a choked sound of fear escaped him.Steve waited.

It took another two minutes, but the Russian peered out from between his fingers.With a measured movement, Steve set the tiny wet-bar sized bottle of vodka on the cot.Somehow this made him all the more terrifying, and the other man’s breath came out in ragged wheezes.

“If you say _anything,”_ Steve said, voice hard with promise, “I will break more than your legs, and I will make it hurt.”If his hand curled around the tubing of the man’s foley catheter, and if he gave it a slight tug to remind him what it was attached to and how much it would hurt if he yanked it out, well, it was just for effect.He leaned back, slow, controlled.It was the first time he had walked in the shadowed spaces behind pupils dilated by fear, and it was a rush. 

“Believe me, _Stepan_ ,” he continued, enjoying that connection of nomenclature, “I know all about pain.And so does The _Soldat_.”

What little blood resided in the Russian’s face drained away.That was confirmation enough for Steve to know that there were those in the world who believed his support of Bucky meant he had gone dark.That he was dangerous, unhinged, a man of no nation and no morals.That suited him just fine right now.Steve blinked and then smiled, a twist of lips that was not at all what it was supposed to be.

“счастливого Рождества,” he said, though he knew that it wasn’t Christmas yet by the Orthodox calendar.It was Christmas by his, and the little bit of vodka wasn’t just a prop; he had been in this young man’s shoes, away from everything he knew in a place split open by the worst follies of human nature.He chose to offer comfort within threat. “I’ll be back when it’s time for your medicine.”

Stepan the Russian blanched all over again, and Steve smiled a real smile when he turned away.

 

 

 

“What’re you grinning at?” Bucky asked as Steve helped him to reattach his prosthesis.

“I bullied someone.”

Bucky snorted, clearly not believing him.“Bullied how?”

“Threats of grievous bodily harm with a side of vodka.”

“Sounds like a regular Tuesday in Russia.”

“Speaking of Russia,” Steve said, smile fading, “it’s happened.We’ve been recognized.I don’t think he’ll say anything after our little chat, but we have to go.”

Bucky shook his head.“No.You’re not done with your mural.”

“It’s not even close to being worth the risk.”

“Yes it is,” Bucky insisted, his jaw set.“We’re not leaving until you’re done.”

“Bucky.”

“Steve.”

“ _Bucky,_ ” he repeated.

“ _Steve,”_ the love of his life mimicked.

He sighed.“Are you punishing me for being obstinate when we were younger?”

“Of course not,” Bucky said, all false innocence.His fingers had begun to play along Steve’s collarbone. 

“If the weather holds,” Steve relented at last, “I think I’ll be done by New Years Eve.”

“Then we’re out of here New Years Day,” Bucky said.“And Steve?”

“Hm?”

“We’re taking Zara with us.”

He smiled.“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sam remembers in this chapter is A Monstrous Manifesto by Catherynne M. Valente.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys start the journey home for Inauguration Day, and Steve and Tony finally talk face to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the long wait. We're getting there. :)

Sam nearly fell off the couch when his phone screeched a FaceTime ring and the display said _Steve_.He let out an incoherent shout and leapt to his feet.Natasha skidded around the corner with a gun in her hand two seconds later, spooked by his strangled attempts at words.

“What?” she said, eyes wide.“ _What?_ ”

He pointed at the screen, trying not to jump up and down.

“Well _answer it!”_ she shouted. 

Later, they would laugh about it, but in the moment they were both so relieved that it was an incredibly emotional experience to get that call.Sam managed to answer and they laid eyes on laggy, pixellated versions of Steve and James for the first time in a month.

“Merry Christmas!” Steve’s voice echoed in the room even though it was tinny and crackling with distance.

“Are you guys making weird faces or is our connection that bad?” James asked.

“Shut up,” Natasha said, furious and glad in the same breath.

“Seriously, though, our connection is terrible and it could cut out any second, so if it does, sorry and we miss you,” Steve said.

“Where the hell are you?” Sam demanded.

“Um,” Steve said.

“Syria,” Bucky supplied.Steve winced.

“Of course,” Natasha breathed, hand on her forehead.“Why _wouldn’t_ you be in a war zone full of Russians?” 

“Hey, we’re in good company,” Steve protested.He turned the phone and another man came into half-blurred focus.

“Come on, Steve, I said I didn’t—” he started.

“ _Bruce?_ ”

The man on the screen offered a half smile.“Hi, Natasha.And Sam, right?”

Sam nodded.He’d only met Bruce Banner the one time, very briefly at Avengers tower right before the Ultron thing went down.He was sporting a beard now, and was, maybe, a little leaner than that night.

“You’re insane,” Natasha said, shaking her head in disbelief.“All of you.”

“You are a card-carrying member of that club just like the rest of us,” Bruce said.“Merry Christmas, guys.I have patients to treat.”He wandered out of the frame. 

“He’s lying,” James said.

“Let him be,” Steve murmured, turning the phone back to the two of them.“I’m really sorry we haven’t called.There’s no electricity most of the time and definitely not any cell signal or wifi.The only reason it’s on now is because there’s a temporary ceasefire through the end of the year.”

Sam wished that was more than seven days.

“What have you been doing?” he asked, trying not to dread the answer.

“Bruce is running a field hospital here.We’re helping out.Me with nursing stuff, and Bucky with the amputees.”

It wasn’t the answer he expected, and if Natasha’s face was any indication, she was in the same boat.But he supposed Steve had plenty of experience with field medic duties, having seen almost continuous action for two years in World War II.It went without saying that Barnes knew more than enough about living as an amputee to help others adjust.

“When are you coming home?” Natasha questioned.

“We’re leaving New Years Day,” James replied.“It might take us a while to get out.Getting in was easy but leaving is a different story.”

“Do you need documents?Background work?”

“It’s all set,” he nodded.Steve looked at him like he had no idea what he was talking about; he let it pass with a shrug.

“We might do a stopover in Wakanda first, but we’ll be back home before the Inauguration,” Steve added.

Sam was about to open his mouth to tell them they needed to come straight back, that there were things they had to talk about, but Natasha spoke first.

“Call us when you get to Wakanda so we know you’re all right.”

He glanced at her, surprised.

“We will,” Steve said, his image flickering and his voice distorted.The connection was probably going to drop.“Tell everyone else we said hi and happy holidays.”

“We love you,” Natasha managed to say before the screen went black.Sam hit the button to call back, but nothing happened.Whatever tenuous connection Steve and James had to the outside world, it was gone now.

“Shit,” Sam sighed.“Why didn’t you ask him about his teeth?”

“They were wearing rings.”

He blinked.“What?”

“On their right hands.They were wearing rings,” she repeated.

It took his brain a moment to catch up.“You think they got married?”

“Engaged, at least.”She smiled, and not for the first time, Sam was struck by how freaking beautiful she was.Natasha raised an eyebrow.“They’re not purity rings, that’s for sure.”

He chuckled.Then his smile faded as he understood what Natasha meant by commenting on the rings.Steve and James were finally happy, and the questions they had to ask and the news they might have to deliver would wreck that.

“Let them have a honeymoon,” she said with a sigh.

“A honeymoon in a war zone,” he mused.

She leaned back into his chest.Natasha wasn’t overt in her affections most of the time, but she was starting to show it a little more when they were in private quarters.Sam wrapped his arms around her and she made a little humming sound.

“You find happiness where you can,” she said, and snaked around in the circle of his arms to kiss him.

 

 

There were two text messages on her phone on Christmas morning.One from Natasha, and one from a +371 number that could only be Nick.

 

NATASHA: _Steve and James called.They’re ok.Bad connection, only had a minute to talk, didn’t get to ask about the teeth.They’ll be home by Inauguration Day._

 

Maria laid back on the couch, boneless.Thank God.Today was the deadline.If they hadn’t heard from Steve and James by the end of the day, the worst would be assumed and the search would have begun.They were all right.She blew out a sigh and didn’t move for close to five minutes, letting all the residual tension drain out of her.

They hadn’t made much progress.Natasha let her know she put Sharon on the task of trying to find Steve’s SHIELD medical records, but Sharon wasn’t having any luck.It wasn’t that people didn’t want to help her; several tried, but the government had buried those files _deep_.

It was pretty obvious that Natasha herself had gone after Helmut Zemo.Initially the news said he’d broken out of prison, until the surveillance video of a gang of men dragging him struggling from his cell was released.Now they were saying he was ‘abducted’, and nobody seemed in a particular hurry to find him.If Natasha didn’t have a hand in that cookie jar, she’d shave her head.

For all that, they weren’t any closer to an answer.But if the unknown number was Nick, there was a chance.She took a breath and opened the message.

 

+371 844 555 2993: _Merry Christmas._

 

It was the kind of message that would have given her hope back in the day.It still made her feel good, to know Nick was thinking of her, but woman did not live on thoughts alone.

 

MARIA: _Thanks.You too.Where’s +371?_

 

She could have Googled it, of course, but she was feeling lazy.

 

+371 844 555 2993: _Latvia._

 

That was him, all right.No excess, no detail, no humor.In the past she might have tried to draw him out or get some more information, but she didn’t have to play that game anymore.She got right to the point.

 

MARIA: _Serious question.When PR came in was it missing any parts?_

 

PR was their own code for Steve; it stood for Project Rebirth.It hadn’t bothered her at the time, but now that she knew the man, she hated that they had referred to him as a thing.Even so, if she wasn’t careful with her questioning over a non-secure link, Nick wouldn’t answer.

 

+371 844 555 2993: _You were there._

 

MARIA: _I’m talking the small stuff I might not have noticed._

 

+371 844 555 2993: _Nothing that I recall.Mint condition per the professionals.Still think maybe a little too good for all the wear and tear it must have gone through._

 

God, she _loathed_ talking about Steve this way.Maria stared at the ceiling until her phone buzzed again.She was hoping Nick would have something better to tell her, but a part of her knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

 

+371 844 555 2993: _Was I right?_

 

MARIA: _Maybe._

 

+371 844 555 2993: _I didn’t want to be._

 

MARIA: _I know._

 

Minutes passed. 

 

+371 844 555 2993: _Do you need help?_

 

He never presumed she did; that was one of the things she had always liked about him.He didn’t see her as someone in need of rescue.It had taken time to actually become that person, but she was glad she had the chance.

 

MARIA: _I’m not sure._

 

+371 844 555 2993: _Say the word and I’m there._

 

MARIA: _If I have to._

 

She hoped she wouldn’t.

 

 

 

 

It was _cold_.Steve’s hands burned with chill, and it was a good thing this wasn’t detail work.It was just the finishing touches.He didn’t need precision.

Steve paused to breathe warm air on his paint-smeared fingers.At the edge of the roof he could just make out the shape of Bucky.He was dressed in black, rifle held like an extension of his body, and he was so still he might have been a mannequin if not for the menace he projected.The promise of motion in quietude.The absolute focus of the sniper.

If he was honest with himself, it had always gotten him a little hot and bothered.Well, they would need to warm up later, when it was done.A twist of a smile tugged at his lips and Steve stirred his paint.Couldn’t let it freeze now.

 

 

 

 

“Oh my fucking _God,”_ Tony groaned.“Is he kidding me with this shit?”

Pepper didn’t respond.She was squinting at the television, having paused the live broadcast.After a minute of listening to Tony grumble, she sat back and blinked a few times.

“Well,” she said, straightening her glasses, “I had no idea Steve was such a provocateur.”

“Stop saying it like it’s a good thing.It is not a good thing!”

She made a face that had long ago been perfected, a mixture of raised eyebrows and pursed lips that wouldn’t have been out of place on Rhodey’s grandmother.“Oh, so it’s only a good thing when it’s you?”

“I didn’t say that.”But his arms were crossed, and he could _feel_ himself pouting.Lord, this woman could read him like a book.“But yes.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “Tony, it’s just a painting.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, “and the Accords are just a five paragraph essay.”He stood up, waved his hands in the air.“I mean, absolutely _nobody_ around here is a paranoid infantile lunatic who might see that as a death threat or a declaration of war.” 

“There’s no signature.No one can prove it was him.”

“Are you looking at what I’m looking at?” he demanded.

“Yes.The Hydra insignia has been in the public domain since the forties, and you can bet there was renewed interest after Project Insight.Anyone could have painted that.”Pepper shook her head.“It’s about time someone painted that.”

Tony stared at her, and then pointed an accusing finger.“You have actually been doing PR to cover my antics for so long that you can’t help yourself, can you?”

Pepper shrugged without a trace of apology.“Nope.”

“My dear woman, I’m sorry I did this to you,” he said, sliding close, suddenly, inexplicably turned on.

“No you’re not,” she chided, looking him straight in the eye and daring him to contradict her.And, well, he had learned a long time ago that he wasn’t ever going to meaningfully win an argument with Pepper, and the only way he’d leave with any sort of dignity was to chase the spark in her eyes.He leaned forward to kiss her and she accepted the detente, climbing gracefully onto his lap.He’d forgotten how much he liked the way her skirt rode up around her thighs when she did that.

He promptly forgot all about Steve and his bullshit. 

 

 

 

 

+371 844 555 2993: _Subtle as a sledgehammer, as usual._

 

Maria smiled at her phone.

 

 

 

 

It was a long road, starting the night Steve finished the mural.They went back to the field hospital to gather their things, knowing that as soon as daylight hit and either satellites or aircraft sighted that rooftop things might get a little crazy.They had packed beforehand, told Bruce and Nafisa the plan, and asked Zara if she wanted to come with them.Neither wanted to take her away without that; no matter how much better things would be for her somewhere else, this was still home and she still had a choice.

Zara was, at heart, a little adventurer.She said yes, she wanted to go.Bucky knew it would kill Nafisa a bit, sending her out into the unknown.It would’ve killed him to leave her behind.Nafisa saw that and that was probably the only reason she let it happen.She helped Zara pack a few things into an old backpack with a picture of a horse on it. 

The rest of that night passed in a blur.They darkened Steve’s hair and beard with henna dye, made sure their fake papers were in order (and their guns for places where paper wouldn’t matter), reviewed their story and their identities, and went over everything with Zara.The normally animated girl was focused and somber.She could do it - play the spy game - and Bucky tried not to think about why, about the way the children had been taught to cover up and make themselves scarce when the Russians or ISIL came around, and how the older ones knew how to shoot.Most of all, he tried not to think about why she was here at all.

It was pretty bad, he reflected, when the people doing the rescuing were fugitives, one an ex-assassin and the other a disenchanted figurehead of a bygone era.It was pretty bad when the war all around them had so many sides that it didn’t seem likely to ever end.There had always been a sense of motion to the Second World War, the feeling that the scales would tip if things rocked hard enough.But the world was different then - and he wasn’t just saying that as someone with a longer perspective than most.There really was less innocence and less hope in the world now.

The horizon was graying when they left.Bruce and Steve hugged for a long time, then spent two solid minutes telling each other to be careful.Bucky graced Bruce with a hug, too.He’d come around on Dr. Banner.He was a good but wary man with every reason to build walls, not unlike Bucky himself.Holding on to a grudge against him was just an exercise in pot and kettle.

Steve was quiet as they got into the car and pulled away.Bucky had nothing to say, either.He was worried about the people they were leaving behind.The solemn set of Steve’s face in the dawn was enough to know he felt the same.

Zara was quiet in his arms, half asleep.Nafisa taught him how to wrap her headscarf before they left.She was too young to really need it, but if they ran into ISIL or any other fundamentalist group, the more covered she was, the better.His lips twisted when he thought about the burqa in her backpack.It wasn’t the garment that made him angry; nuns wore habits, after all, and modesty was a common theme in many religions.If it was what someone wanted, who was he to argue?No, it was the idea of making someone invisible by force, refusing them education and rights and _personhood_.He’d lived that.

Bucky blew out a shaky breath.Steve glanced over at him, then took his hand off the gearshift for a moment to squeeze his knee.He felt the pressure of his fingers all the way through his body. _I got you, Buck._

He wished that everyone had a Steve.And with every cell in his body, he prayed that they would make it out and Zara would never have to know what it was like to be a shadow. 

 

 

 

They traveled south.They’d come in via Turkey but were leaving by way of Lebanon.All inquiries had deemed both borders difficult, but Lebanon was in the direction of where they were trying to go and under a bit less scrutiny from American and EU interests.Safer, if any of it could be considered safe.

Again the mismatched panorama of war hit him; some places they drove through, you couldn’t even tell there was a war on.Others, they might as well have been on the surface of Mars, for what remained.The smell of destruction hadn’t changed much, though.Sometimes he struggled to remember it was 2016 and not 1944.Well, 2017 now.A new year.

The journey was less than 150 miles, but it took them almost 4 days.There were so many check points, hastily erected gates or barricades, hours spent in the car surrounded by men with guns.It set Steve’s teeth on edge to wait it out - he’d never been good at waiting - but Bucky knew how to fake papers and become someone else.Slowly, Steve was learning how to do the same.

Zara pretended to be asleep most of the time.Strategy or stress reaction, he wasn’t sure.Regardless, he held onto her and listened to Bucky explain for the fourteenth time that they were her only remaining relatives, come from Lebanon to retrieve her after the entire family was killed in a bombing.Bucky was her uncle, Steve a cousin.Often, the guards would nod in understanding, take a lingering look at Zara’s missing arm, and eventually wave them through no matter what faction or side they worked for.

It wasn’t until they were about twenty miles from the border, outside what was left of the city of Homs, that things got hairy.Up ahead bright police-style spotlights lit suddenly, flashing in their eyes.It was night and they shouldn’t have encountered anyone because of curfew.They shouldn’t have been on the road themselves, but Bucky wanted to keep moving and they’d had good luck up until now.

They had been warned by others at the previous checkpoints.Sometimes roaming packs of ISIL fighters patrolled at night, and they didn’t care about papers or missing limbs.This close to the border, it could be Hezbollah, too, or just loyalists looking to make sure rebels didn’t escape over the border.It was so difficult to keep it all straight; who was a threat, who wasn’t, _why_.

What mattered, though, was that they were alone and not at an official checkpoint.There were no witnesses.No civilian eyes to curtail the violence, if they were spoiling for blood.It spelled trouble.

“Steve.”

He didn’t need the prompt from Bucky.He shook Zara awake and hastily rearranged her clothing.She crawled into the backseat like they’d talked about, the smallest of Bucky’s knives in her hand beneath the voluminous fabric.He didn’t doubt that she would use the knife if she had to, but there wasn’t much an eight-year-old could do once the element of surprise was lost.His muscles tightened.He’d spent the last five weeks healing people, but he’d do the hurting again if it came to that. 

Bucky stopped the car a ways off from the lights.

“I’m going out there.” 

Steve nodded.He wasn’t going to tell him what to do.Bucky had always been able to charm his way into or out of things, had already gotten them through two checkpoints he didn’t think they’d get past.Maybe he could do it again.If he couldn’t, he knew nothing he said would keep Bucky from doing what he thought was necessary to bring them safely to the other side.Initially he thought it was something new, something the Soldier had bred in him, but somewhere along the line he realized it had been in Bucky all along.It was in Steve, too.

Bucky stepped outside the car and closed the door behind him.Steve exhaled and slid the gun up from his ankle holster.He watched Bucky stride forward slowly, hands held up.Shapes emerged from the lights.Men with rifles.Three close to Bucky, maybe four or five more by the trucks.Easy for the two of them, though it would’ve been easier with the shield.

His mind snapped into feverish motion as Bucky talked with them.Bucky could take out the three near him without much trouble.When they started shooting he could block with the arm, kick up dust to obscure his movements, but there were a lot of guns and none of the tac gear they were used to.He was vulnerable.Quite suddenly, he knew how Bucky always felt during the war.The crawl of anxiety up the inside of his skin was _awful._  

He controlled his breathing; he was no good to Bucky if he couldn’t stay calm.If he shot the lights out as soon as Bucky snapped into motion, the dark would give them the cover they needed to neutralize the rest.That was it.Slowly, he rolled down the window.All he had to do was open the door, crouch behind its cover, and shoot out the lights.Then he could get to Bucky in the space of a breath.

And thank God he knew Bucky as well as he did, knew the minute shift in stance that said _there’s going to be a fight_.He turned to Zara, murmured to her to get down on the floor and cover herself with a blanket and not move until one of them said the code word, and no sooner had he done it than it happened.A lightning-fast drop, a spray of dirt, and the night exploded into gunfire.

He didn’t look at Bucky.He just did what he needed to do, picking off the spotlights one at a time.Pop, pop, pop.Darkness.Men shouted in Arabic and he heard the crunch of bones breaking.Steve shoved the gun back in its holster and ran, heart in his throat.

He found Bucky instinctively.He couldn’t see him but the press of their backs together was as familiar as breathing.Bucky wasn’t shooting.These men might, eventually, go home to their families if they had them.That wasn’t to say they’d be in one piece.

They broke without need for a signal.Steve went for the men, Bucky for the trucks.In thirty seconds it was over.Nine men lay in various states of consciousness, some moaning, all with injuries that would prevent them from moving anytime soon.The trucks sat on flat tires, gas tanks gutted and pouring out onto the cracked asphalt.Bucky was breathing hard with his gun in hand.From the look of things, he was fighting the urge to take care of them permanently. 

In the war, faced with Nazis or Hydra agents, they would have.They _had_.But they still had no idea who these men even were, what faction, and this was just…

Steve touched Bucky’s wrist.He lowered the gun right away.That didn’t stop him from snarling at them in Arabic.Steve still wasn’t the best speaker, but he understood a lot, and this was crystal clear.

_Next time you die._

 

 

 

Forty minutes later they were over the border.Bucky’s fake passports and papers were impeccable.The men at the border check told them they should observe the curfews if they returned to Syria and then welcomed them home.They were kind to Zara, offering her candy along with her provisional visa. 

His brain struggled to keep up with the changes.The _normalcy_ of life on this side of an arbitrary border was shocking.Even in the forties when they had the occasional day or two of leave, it was still in a place that bore the scars of war.They could never quite forget where they were and what they were doing.

Finally there was a safe house, small but cozy in a town an hour in from the border.The world was waking up for a Friday morning when they got there.It was surreal, walls and beds and people without haunted faces; none of them could settle.If Steve had anything to paint with, he would have painted this strange little family, the three of them sat in the small yard in the morning sun, Zara in the middle flanked by two muscled almost-centenarians sucking down cigarettes.He wouldn’t have approved of it normally, smoking around a child, but that was where they were.

After a while, Bucky got up and went out.Zara crawled into his arms like she had for most of the car ride.Steve just breathed.He understood something else, right then: the way his mother had been content to hold him sometimes when he was young, her cheek resting on his hair, for as long as he’d let her.He winced into Zara’s dark braid as he thought of it.The loss of his mother was a physical ache even now.It had been 80 years by the calendar but only 13 by his internal clock.He imagined he could live another 80 and still miss her.

He’d never felt an urge to be a parent, not yet.Fatherhood was a strange concept to him, never having had a father himself, but if this was it…well, he got it.He would have killed every single one of those men on the road if it meant protecting this little girl.

It was a slippery slope.They weren’t cut out to be fathers, though that was maybe less a function of character than it was of circumstance.There was no safe place for a child on their current path, and it wasn’t a path Steve could give up.He already knew that Bucky wouldn’t let him walk that path alone.Beyond that, Bucky no doubt realized that until they scrubbed those words from his brain, a permanent arrangement involving children was out of the question.

He sighed and held on to her.As with so many times since he’d dropped the shield, he had to wonder who was saving who.

 

 

 

 

When he got back, Zara was asleep and Steve was sitting in the kitchen staring into space.

“What are you doing?” he asked, wondering if he should be afraid of the answer.

“Thinking.”

“Well,” he muttered, “don’t overdo it.”

Steve offered him a ghost of a smile but lapsed right back into his unfocused expression.

“Hey.That was good, back there, when you shot out the lights.Probably saved me from taking a bullet or two.”

That brought Steve around.“That was the idea,” he said, raising his arms into a stretch. “Where’d you go?”

“To ditch the car, and to get this.”Bucky set grocery bags down on the table.

“Food and soap?”

“Have you somehow _not_ been dreaming about food and a hot bath?”

Steve blinked.Then frowned.“No, actually.It’s…” he trailed off.Bucky knew what he was going to say, anyway.It was horrific how easy it was to fall back into the routines of war.

He started to fix breakfast.A fed Steve was almost always a more centered Steve, and Bucky had forgotten how it calmed his own mind to cook after weeks on rations.He tried not to think in mission parameters anymore, but he had accomplished everything he wanted; they were out, they were safe, and nobody could track them.All with a minimum of bloodshed. 

“What were you thinking about?” he asked.

Steve stood up and leaned into his back, face between his shoulder blades.It was the first real touch they’d had in days.God, he missed that.

“I was thinking that we have to convince T’Challa to start an adoption program for the orphans.There have to be people in Wakanda willing to give these kids a chance.Maybe sponsorship for refugees, too.”

He twisted around in Steve’s arms.“That is…that is a _great_ idea.”

“I don’t know.They’re pretty resistant to allowing outsiders in.We were the first in a long time, Buck.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Steve nodded and kissed him lightly on the lips.He looked tired.In part it was the darker hair; it made him look pale when he was already fair, but his eyes, they popped like chips of turquoise now.His chest swelled with something so familiar that for a moment he really _felt_ like the Bucky Barnes of old.

Steve’s fingers grazed his cheek.“You okay?”

He wasn’t sure he could make his voice convincing enough, but he tried.“Yes.Now sit down so I can feed you.”

“Us,” he said, and he skimmed his finger into the shakshuka.

 

 

 

After food and a shower and a long nap, Steve went for the television.They got the first glimpse of his rooftop mural, mainly because the news was running a story about how the government had destroyed it.It wasn’t unexpected.When you painted the Hydra seal with the very recognizable faces of several world leaders curled within its tentacles, it was bound to be unpopular.Still, Steve sighed at the images of the building imploding.

“They could have just painted over it.”

“Mmm,” Bucky hummed.“Not fast or forceful enough.”

Steve looked over at him.“Destroying something doesn’t make it so it was never there.”

“No,” he agreed softly.“It doesn’t.”

 

 

 

He was nervous about making love with Zara in the house, but damn, he wanted it.Wanted Steve.They hadn’t since the night of the rings.No time, no energy, no safe place.Now the urge itched in his fingers, his very bones.He needed it.

Steve, too.He offered no resistance when Bucky’s self-control eroded in the middle of the night.He was a little sleepy at first, but as soon as he recognized the restlessness in Bucky he woke up fast.Without much foreplay, Steve turned him onto his belly, nudged his right knee up, and gave him his full weight as he fucked him slow.It was everything he needed.

It felt like an hour, maybe two, or maybe he was out of his mind and it was only ten minutes.He didn’t know and it didn’t matter.All that mattered was the warm press of him, the dragging build of pleasure, the wholeness.He came gasping with Steve wrapped around his back, one arm threaded under his in a steady embrace.

Steve kept going.Bucky was gut-punched with how _good_ it felt, everything lit up, nipples and oversensitive cock rubbing against the sheets every time Steve moved.In the space of a few minutes he was teetering on the edge of a rare second orgasm.Steve’s hands tightened on him like he knew it, and he shifted his hips to thrust harder.

“C’mon, Buck,” he commanded, soft but undeniable.That tone of voice and the hot creep of his breath against the scarred skin of his shoulder was all it took.Bucky moaned without meaning to as his cock twitched and began to spurt again. 

Steve put his fingers in his mouth to quiet him.Bucky bit down eagerly, wild with pleasure, sucking at the salty taste of him.Steve stiffened and made a choked sound, pressing him hard into the mattress as he came.

“Jesus,” Steve panted after a minute, forehead against the back of his neck.“ _God_.”

“Allah,” Bucky added, slightly delirious.In for a penny, in for a pound, when it came to blasphemy.He felt the shape of Steve’s smile on his skin.He was still hard inside him.

“More?” he asked, hand playing along Bucky’s hip.

He gave an agitated little squirm beneath him.“Yes!” 

 

 

 

Mary and Joseph and the three wise men, _yes_.

 

 

 

Somewhere along the way to Wakanda, Zara looked at them thoughtfully and said, “Are you boyfriends?”

Bucky promptly aspirated his beverage.Steve just nodded like she was asking him about the weather.

“Yes, we are.”

“Okay,” she said, smiling, and that was that.

 

 

 

When at last they crossed into Wakanda, things got complicated once more.T’Challa greeted them and then waved Bucky and Zara along.A hand on Steve’s arm stopped him from following.

“There is someone here to see you, Steve,” T’Challa said.

Bucky stopped and turned.Zara’s hand was clasped in his, but she wasn’t paying attention to the adults.There were too many amazing things to look at in Wakanda.

“Just me?” Steve asked, wary, even though he knew T’Challa was firmly in their corner.

“Yes.”

“I’m not leaving without him,” Bucky announced, every line of his body begging someone to argue.

“I thought you might say that,” T’Challa chuckled.“Come, there’s a waiting room.”

 

 

 

Steve found himself on the other side of a two-way mirror, watching Bucky and Zara in said waiting room.Bucky was nervous, but busied himself with occupying the girl, inventing a game on the fly.He had done the same for his sisters once upon a time.

The door clicked open.Steve turned, and there was Tony.He looked annoyed, tired, _older_.A twinge of guilt curled in his belly.There was something like electricity in the air, too - the volume of many words unspoken.

“He won’t let me in,” Tony complained, arms crossed.“Still holding a grudge about that stolen vibranium.”

Steve would bet that _burned_ him.Tony knew the breathtaking scope of technology in Wakanda.He’d probably hoped to actually _see_ some of it.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he went on.“You were the one tossing around his precious frisbee all these years, but he lets you right in.”

Steve summoned patience.“He granted us asylum.If you needed it, he would grant it to you, too.”

Tony didn’t reply.Nor did he move from his spot near the door, but his eyes followed Bucky beyond the mirror.He was smiling now, laughing with Zara.

“You let him near a child?” he said, scandalized.

“You’re one to talk.How old is the kid in the spider costume?His voice hasn’t even changed yet and you have him out there with us.Has it crossed your mind that he could get killed?”

“Has it crossed yours that if someone trips your boy’s murder switch, a lot of people could get killed, including that little girl?”

“Every damn day,” Steve growled.

Tony blinked at the admission, like he hadn’t expected Steve to say that.His jaw tensed, then relaxed.

“You smell.”

Steve blew out an incredulous breath.“Been on the road for a while.Showers and deodorant were in short supply.”

“Nice trip in from Syria, then?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

“Not what I’d call it.”

Tony breathed and then began to pace.“You enjoying yourself with your finger paints?”

“Yeah, actually, I am.”

“Good, good.You’re gonna enjoy yourself right onto the Terrorist Watch List if you’re not careful.”

“I’m not hurting anyone,” Steve said.“It’s this or I’m out there punching.What do you want?”

“I want you to give this up!Just come _home_ , if you apologize and lay low people will forget all about it.”

Steve stared at him in ten kinds of shock.It took everything he had not to say _well you’d know, wouldn’t you._ But the longer he held it back, the angrier he became, and this wasn’t even touching the issue of Bucky, who was clearly not included in Tony’s incredibly myopic invitation to go home.He never thought it would be Tony’s style to _grovel,_ to cater to these rotten politicians.But maybe it wasn’t about that.Maybe he was one of them.The thought felt like being stabbed and Steve bled whatever cruel thoughts came into his head.

“You must be _loving_ this, some rich businessman in charge, doing and saying whatever he wants with no consequences.Hell, you should’ve run for president.”

Tony’s hands curled into fists and he knew he’d hit a nerve.

“Steve,” he said, like his name was a particularly filthy curse word, “don’t start.”

“Why not?It’s pretty clear where you stand.”

Tony looked like he wanted to reach out and strangle him.“I would like for you, for _one second_ , to think about what you’re saying.All my investments are in science and clean energy, Steve. _Science and clean energy_.Do you think I gain anything from this?Or that this moron is any friend of mine?”

Steve closed his eyes, biting down on the spite that boiled up behind his teeth.He knew he was being unfair.If there was one thing Tony hated, it was willful ignorance, and that seemed to be turned up to an eleven back home right now.Beyond that, Tony _cared_ about people.Cocky and insufferable as he could be, he did live up to the title of philanthropist.He was nothing like the man who would take office in a week.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, willing the venom away.“I didn’t mean that.”He rubbed his hands over his face.“I still can’t believe any of this is happening.”

Tony snorted, off-kilter from the apology.“Yeah, well, that’s democracy.”

“Democracy after Hydra’s meddling,” he muttered.He flashed back to the road outside of Homs, the moment of _who am I even fighting and why_ , the ruins of London and Warsaw and Aleppo.It was all designed to grind the human soul down so far that they simply surrendered to whoever promised peace.It wouldn’t matter how it was obtained or what was given up along the way.Steve swallowed and fought a chill.“It’s like they’re still in the driver’s seat.I can’t come home, Tony.”

“I know,” he said, quite simply.

“I didn’t want it to be this way.”

“I know that, too.”

Steve breathed through a baffling urge to hug him.Everything about Tony’s body language said it wouldn’t be welcome and Steve wasn’t sure of himself.He was sleep deprived, worked up, and standing in a room with someone he simultaneously cared deeply about and who had tried to kill the man he loved.

“The Accords…” Tony started, scowling at his feet.“I know they’re flawed.I was trying to take responsibility, okay?Trying to make it look like we were on board with accountability while still retaining as much control as possible.There was no other way to play it.I already told you that.In a year of good behavior they would have dropped the whole goddamn thing or revised it down to technicalities.”His gaze snapped up.“But then you lost your freaking mind and made it worse for all of us.That’s on you.”

For the millionth time, out loud and in his head, Steve repeated, “I know I fucked up, but what was I supposed to do?”

There was no good answer, not then and not now.

“You were supposed to trust the system.You were supposed to trust _me_.”Tony sounded weary, and like he knew the words amounted to nothing to the person across from him.

“How can I trust _anyone_ after the helicarriers?” Steve pleaded.“After Ultron?”Tony winced; that, at least, got through, even though nobody but Natasha seemed to understand how deep the SHIELD bait and switch cut him.It was his turn to pace.“Fuck, Tony, I tried not to think the worst of these people, but they had Wanda in a straitjacket.Some kind of neural inhibitor on her.She could barely speak.Couldn’t feed herself or use the bathroom without help.Sam said they put food in front of her knowing full well she couldn’t eat it.Made her hold her urine until she couldn’t anymore and then left her to sit in it.These are the people you’re getting in bed with, thinking they won’t do it to you.”

“Steve,” Tony said, frustration pouring off him, “ _you put her there_.” 

It pained him to say it; Steve could read him at least that well.It was nothing Steve hadn’t said to himself.It would do no good to tell Tony he put them _all_ here with Ultron.It had already been said and Tony thought this was the solution.That was the problem, wasn’t it?They both thought they were doing the right thing.Relativism at its best.

“I put Bucky there, too.I couldn’t leave him.”

It hung in the air between them.

“Then maybe,” Tony said slowly, “you need to start thinking about what and _who_ you’re sacrificing on this crusade of yours.”

“Maybe you do, too, Tony.”

He wanted to say more. _Don’t you know who goes first in a revolution or a genocide?After the invisible and the disenfranchised? The intellectuals of the opposition.When they decide we’re the problem and not the solution, when you step a toe too far out of line, and you will, Tony, you will, you’re YOU, all the money and technology in the world won’t save you.Won’t save us.I’ve seen it.I’ve felt it.Stared into its eyes.It’s here again, moving the pieces on the chessboard._ He wanted to say all that to Tony, but he would probably just sound like a lunatic. 

As for the sacrifices, he’d thought about it, again and again and again and _again._ In no argument and no universe was it better to take the safe route at the expense of justice and freedom; he wasn’t wired that way.Though he knew with excruciating certainty that he was instrumental in both Bucky and Wanda’s suffering and lost sleep over it on the regular, they had made their own choices to fight for something they believed in.Steve had, too, and Lord knew he suffered for it right alongside them.

“I can’t forgive him,” Tony said with an air of finality. 

Beyond the glass, Bucky was tickling Zara, and she giggled and squirmed until he let up.Then she tickled him and he gave her the same theatrics.Steve’s heart hurt.He didn’t deserve this.Why, _why_ had the universe done this to Bucky, of all people?And Tony, too.He was no saint, it was true, but he was kind and good when you peeled away all the layers.Neither man had ever done anything to merit this suffering.

“Okay,” he said, shaky with the realization that this was closure.No matter that Tony had already said _he_ was forgiven without really saying it. _Come home, apologize, people will forget all about it._ The unspoken subtext was _pick me_ , and Tony would always be on the losing end of that ultimatum.The choice had been made a long time ago.Hell, the choice had been made before Tony was even born _._

It was unfair to both of them.His chest ached with it.For so long after he came out of the ice, he kept a tight lid on his emotions, afraid to seem weak in front of the heroes of the future.Determined to be worthy of their esteem.They never saw how hard he had to tread to keep from drowning.But this, this was an ending he didn’t want.A partnership and a friendship that couldn’t be put back together.That _hurt_ , and it would be an insult to pretend that it didn’t.He let the tears well and hoped Tony would understand they weren’t about Bucky. 

He seemed to.Or at least he didn’t snap out a glib comment, which was more or less his default setting.He’d expected an argument, maybe, but there wasn’t one to be made.It took a Herculean effort for anyone to forgive the person who murdered their loved ones.Angelic grace, perhaps, to accept that a close friend loved said murderer and look both of them in the face day in and day out.There were limitations to forgiveness.

Finally, the nakedness of Steve’s emotions discomfited Tony to the point that he turned away.He spoke to the two-way glass.

“I came to tell you that, and to warn you.The minute that stooge takes office, they’re putting out orders to shoot you on sight.Not in the leg, not in the chest, in the head.And the rounds they have these days, even a super soldier might not survive that, understand?”

Steve sniffled and wiped his nose.“I can’t tell if you’re threatening me or trying to protect me.”

“Both.”Tony flashed a tired but authentic smile.“Don’t make my life difficult, Steve.”

There was no chance of avoiding that, and they both knew it.

“It’s going to be a long four years, isn’t it.” 

“Yup,” Tony said, and then he let himself out. 

 

 

 

 

For the third time, Sam snapped awake, having dozed off with a random sports channel on the television.He was trying to stay up until Natasha came back.He didn’t know where she had gone, and unfortunately she’d missed Steve’s call from Wakanda.

Steve looked a little worn.He assured Sam he was all right, and Bucky, too; it had just been a long road.He didn’t offer a single word of explanation for the little girl twirling around and singing in the background.At one point he turned around and said something to her in what sounded like Arabic, and she skipped out of the frame.It looked every bit like a parent saying _Daddy’s on the phone, keep it down_ , and that messed with Sam’s head something fierce.

Steve didn’t say much about Syria.Or anything, really.It was a short call.

Sam chickened out, though.He knew he was supposed to tell Steve what they’d been working on and ask him about his teeth, but he just couldn’t.He kept thinking about the ring, and now he could see it for himself on Steve’s right fourth finger when he pushed his too-dark hair out of his eyes.He wanted Steve’s honeymoon to last as long as it could.As a result, the farthest he got was saying they needed to sit down and talk before the Inauguration.Steve agreed and they made loose plans to meet two days prior to the one they were both dreading.

As strange as it had been, it was good to see Steve, and it would be good to have him stateside again.He’d known it since November 9th, but they were in for a real shitshow.Sam groaned and tried to shut off his brain before it got started on his list of anxieties as a black man, a veteran, a humanist…

That was the moment when he heard a key in the door.Natasha came in and flung her jacket onto the couch.

“Call Lang,” she said, without preamble.

“What?”

“Scott Lang.Bug-Man.Whatever he goes by.”

“Okay, but why?” he asked, fumbling for his phone.

“I just had a meeting with Sharon Carter.She knows where the user manual is located.”

Sam blinked at her, not following.“User…manual?”

Natasha took a breath and slowed herself down.“Zemo was able to control Barnes because he had the user manual.A literal book that tells you how to manage the Winter Soldier.T’Challa didn’t know about it, so he didn’t take it off Zemo before handing him over to the feds.I suspected there must be something like that floating around, but now it’s confirmed.I haven’t said anything because the fewer people know about it, the better.”

Sam frowned.“So who knows about it?”

“Barnes, obviously.Wanda, me, and now you.”

“Steve doesn’t know?”

She shook her head emphatically.“What do you think he’d do, if he knew?”

He made a face.More likely than not, Steve would run himself into the ground trying to find that book.He’d break laws, mash faces, break _himself_.And then, when he got it - when, not if - he’d burn that book to ashes.Probably well before they could glean anything from it.

“Point taken.”

Natasha sat down and chewed her lip.“I don’t know if it will answer any of our questions, but it’s better for us to be the ones holding that book.I don’t put it past the government to try to use him the way Hydra did.Or to use him to get to Steve.”

Sam opened his contacts and found Lang’s number.“What am I telling Scott?”

“What did you tell him last time?”

“That Captain America needed his help.”

Natasha smiled and Sam knew why.   Right now, Steve was simultaneously more and less Captain America than he had ever been, and no less charismatic for it.

“That’ll do,” she said.


End file.
